Professional Documents
Culture Documents
ELECTRONIC LITERATURE
Volume 1
Series editors:
Helen Burgess, Dene Grigar, Rui Torres, María Mencía
John Cayley
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CONTENTS
List of Figures vi
Preface ix
Acknowledgments xi
Grammalepsy: An Introduction 1
1 Beyond Codexspace 15
Notes 221
Bibliography 268
Index 282
LIST OF FIGURES
1.1 T
wo screenshots from wine flying showing, above, the
entire text of the translation of the quatrain by Qian Qi
(ACE ? 722–80) and, below, a fragment representing
an alternative “path” through the poem. The words in
this fragment were displayed in the order: “turquoise
butterfly flying under scarlet flowers.” Reproductions
reflect the contemporary resolution of Apple
Macintosh displays. Courtesy of the author 19
1.2 Screenshot from Under It All. This is the version of the
piece as it appears in Moods & Conjunctions: Indra’s
Net III. Courtesy of the author 22
1.3 Scaled-down, monochrome version of the
“three-dimensional” poster poem of Under It All.
Courtesy of the author 23
1.4 Screenshot from “Critical Theory” in Collocations:
Indra’s Net II. Courtesy of the author 24
1.5 Screenshot from Golden Lion: Indra’s Net IV.
Courtesy of the author 26
1.6 John Cayley, Text of “Actual possession
of the world …” lines gleaned at average
collocational strictness 386/500 from Leaving the City.
Courtesy of the author 28
1.7 Four seasonal screenshots from The Speaking Clock
show the times: (a) 12:11, (b) 12:14, (c) 12:20 and
(d) 12:26, all on November 1, 1995. Courtesy of the
author 29
LIST OF FIGURES vii
Grammalepsy brings together, for the first time, my selected essays, a number
of which are considered formative for the theory and practice of electronic
literature. I prefer to reread them within a larger domain of theory and
practice: digital language art. Hence the subtitle.
I am a pioneering practitioner of digital language art, poetic in particular,
with a research-based practice dating back to the late 1970s. My first for-
publication work of digital language art, wine flying, was issued on 3.5"
floppy disk by my own Wellsweep Press in 1989–90 as well as being installed
and exhibited at various venues in the United Kingdom. The same processes
of dissemination applied, for example, to Book Unbound, 1995. The earliest
essay in this collection, “Beyond Codexspace,” dates from 1996, and the
latest from 2017.
This book is provided with an original introduction that offers its readers
what amounts to a theory of aesthetic linguistic practice and also, to an
extent, a theory of language itself, one that is intended to be particularly
appropriate for the making and critical appreciation of language art in
digital media. These collected essays have been gently edited in order to
enhance the coherence of the whole. The notes and citations associated
with the essays have been more extensively edited, to bring them a little
more up-to-date and to ensure that they are as readable and as useable as
possible.
The introduction eschews the tendency of literary critics and writers,
including theorists and critics of electronic literature, to reduce aesthetic
linguistic making—even when it has multimedia affordances—to “writing.”
Many of the essays collected here were content with this conventional and
theoretical catastrophe. I argue that language is media-agnostic, and I take
an approach to the philosophy and, indeed, the ontology of language that
follows Jacques Derrida in this regard. Language animals, on the other
hand, have evolved or learned to make language in only two support
media: aurality and grammatological visuality. Our prejudice with regard
to literature—that typographic embodiments of language house its uniquely
high art—is merely learned, a function of civilization. The art of language,
heedless of civilization, is always also embodied in artifacts that exist as
aurality, because aural expression correlates with the predisposition of the
only language animals of which we are aware: ourselves.
x PREFACE
Clement Valla, Noah Wardrip-Fruin. And also to: Mark Amerika, Caroline
Bergvall, Charles Bernstein, Tim Bewes, Friedrich Block, Stephanie Boluk,
Mauro Carassai, Wendy Chun, Maria Damon, Lori Emerson, Maria
Engberg, Jerome Fletcher, Luciana Gattass, Harry Gilonis, Simon Gunn,
Terry Harpold, Robert E. Harrist Jr., Ian Hatcher, Will Hicks, Romana Huk,
Elizabeth James, Michael Joyce, Eduardo Kac, Andrew Klobucar, Raine
Koskimaa, Mark Leahy, Patrick LeMieux, Alan Liu, Talan Memmott, Maria
Mencia, Adalaide Morris, Stuart Moulthrop, Robert Mosley, Elli Mylonas,
Chris Novello, Eric Dean Rasmussen, Denise Riley, Massimo Riva, Will
Rowe, Jörgen Schaefer, Bill Seaman, Álvaro Seiça Neves, Ana Marques
da Silva, Hazel Smith, Braxton Soderman, Alan Sondheim, Ben Swanson,
Thomas Swiss, Illya Szilak, Lori Talley, Steve Tomasula, Patricia Tomaszek,
Greg Ulmer, John Welch, Yang Lian. I should say that a number of these
people have been my students but that, in addition, I owe a great debt of
gratitude to all my students, all of whom have helped me think and make.
With regard to this publication and its production, it is a pleasure to
thank my instantly helpful and responsive initial editor at Bloomsbury
Academic, Mary Al-Sayed, and also Katie Gallof and Erin Duffy who took
charge of the book in its final stages.
Finally, to Joanna Howard, for everything, and in particular for believing
that, after all this, I might still finish my vampire novel.
These essays appeared over an extended period in a wide range of
magazines, journals, and online resources. Details follow (with more
information in the bibliography). I would like to thank the editors and
publishers for their generous reception of the work and for their kind
permission, where necessary, to reproduce the essays here.
“Beyond Codexspace.” Apart from its original publication in the journal
Visible Language, 1996, this essay was translated into Finnish for Parnasso,
3 (1999), pp. 290–302, and was also collected, with revisions, for Media
Poetry: An International Anthology, 2007, edited by Eduardo Kac.
“Pressing the ‘REVEAL CODE’ Key” was published, 1996, in one of the
first online-only academic journals, EJournal. (This term is now almost as
impossible to search effectively on the internet as would be “Journal” as an
eponymous proper name.)
“Of Programmatology,” came out, 1998, in the radical London-based
new media arts and culture magazine, Mute.
“The Code Is Not the Text (Unless It Is the Text)” was originally sketched
out for the “p0es1s: Poetics of digital text” symposion [sic], held in Erfurt,
September 28–29, and first published, 2002, in the Electronic Book Review,
a vital journal for the field of electronic literature and digital language art.
“Hypertext/Cybertext/Poetext” was presented as a paper at the conference
“Assembling Alternatives,” University of New Hampshire, Durham, August
29–September 2, 1996. This conference was important for introducing a
transatlantic community of experimental writers, chiefly poets, to digital
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS xiii
Hyperrhiz: New Media Cultures, and the full essay was first published,
2011, in Revista de Estudos Literários.
“Terms of Reference & Vectoralist Transgressions” was published, 2013,
in the online journal Amodern.
“Reading and Giving—Voice and Language” was first published in a
special issue of the journal, Performance Research, “On Writing and Digital
Media,” edited by Jerome Fletcher, 2013. Reprinted by permission of Taylor
& Francis Ltd.
“Reconfiguration” was published, 2017, in a special issue of the
online journal Humanities, “The Poetics of Computation,” edited by Burt
Kimmelman and Andrew Klobucar.
“At the End of Literature.” This is the second, final, and independent
part of a longer piece published as “The Advent of Aurature and the End
of (Electronic) Literature” in The Bloomsbury Handbook of Electronic
Literature, 2017, edited by Joseph Tabbi. Reprinted here by kind permission
of the editor and Bloomsbury Academic.
Grammalepsy: An Introduction
It was only a few months prior to the gathering of these chapters that I
discovered that I had grammalepsy. Or, rather, I determined that we are
all of us, language animals, in the grip of this condition. We are seized by
it, and singled out in its thrall, whenever we encounter or make more of
the language, the languages, that we have. Linguists, historians of language,
scientists studying evolution, philosophers, and philosophers of language
are all able to affirm that human beings “have” language, but this is one of
the very few things on which they do agree and they do so, in part, as an
admission of ignorance—concerning essential details of the when, the how,
the why, and, in particular, the what of this species-unique facility—not a
trait exactly, because it requires interaction. Language cannot exist for one
without others.
So, we—the plural is essential—have, and can use, and can make things
with, language. And some philosophers of language also suggest that it has
us, or that we dwell within it; that language uses and forms us. We live,
in any case, in relations with language that alternate and unravel in terms
of who or what determines the practices and performances of whoever
or whatever we are—languages and ourselves—when we speak and read.
Rather than taking a determinate, prescription-inducing stance on the nature
and characteristics of some predominant relationship between humans and
language (or language and humans), I preferred, even before discovering
that I had grammalepsy, to work with language as a maker, as if it was
my medium, and, thus, to learn about language in practice. I compared my
practice with that of other makers in other media. And occasionally, I also
made other kinds of artifacts in other media.
One of the things that I learned about language is that its “materiality”
is singular, or, rather, that the way in which language comes to be is
singular—embodied by and fashioned to exist as humanly perceptible
material phenomena.1 For, whatever language is, it cannot be identified—
essentially or substantively—with anything that is materially perceptible to
2 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
at all the various “e-” and “i-” prefixes. Except by analogy with “electronic
music” (where “electronic” indicates technicity and a very wide range of
actual electronic sound-making and recording instruments), it seemed to me
foolish for aesthetic language practices to establish inappropriate material
associations from the get-go, especially in the context of computation, given
the latter’s singular, problematic materiality. But just as electronic music
has an established tradition and nomenclature (although for longer than
its literary bedfellow), electronic literature has now, along with a canon of
sorts, an established place in the academy and, to an extent, in the world of
letters.
As for the “digital” of digital language art, this is also a problem given
that an art of language is our purpose. The last chapter in this book—
although concerning itself only minimally with these questions of naming—
states it clearly, “The digital … is not a medium. More precisely, it is not a
medium of interest to the majority of theorists or practitioners of those arts
for which language is the medium.” In the future, I expect digital language
art to go the way of digital art. There is art, but no one need mention that
it is “digital” because art is simply part of a culture that is also, inevitably,
historically digital, and these circumstances have little to tell us concerning
the significance or affect of the art as such.
Apart from in “WDM,” questions surrounding nomenclature are taken up,
particularly, in “Beyond Codexspace,” “Of Programmatology,” and “Hyper/
Cybertext/Poetext.” Summarizing, I preferred “digital” to “electronic” and,
albeit hopelessly, “programmaton” for “computer.” “Programmatology”
is a more or less playful and obvious allusion to Jacques Derrida’s
“grammatology.” For a time, once having settled in a university department
for which “creative writing” underlay, institutionally, its “literary arts,” I
determined to call what I did with my colleagues and students “writing digital
media,” but I have abandoned even the nice ambiguities of this phrase’s
grammar and its medial hostage to fortune, as outlined above. One of the
phrases for which I credit myself and which I still find useful is “networked
and programmable media.” The programmability of both compositional
and delivery media—once encoded instantiations of substantive media
became available—was and is something that distinguishes these media
and their potentialities. The actual creation by these same programmable
media of what we now think of as the network, and their broadcast life in
the new world of information, gave programmable media overwhelming
quantifiable power by which, in practice, they are also specified and
qualified. Not “digital” then, but “programmable” and “networked.” The
insufficiently anticipated non-mutuality of emergent network architectures
is another matter, and we will return to this.
Initially, “cybertext”—which no longer seems to figure despite the
continuing influence of Espen Aarseth’s eponymous monograph—presented
itself as a much more inclusive and catholic term as compared with
8 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
and thus “inscribed” with dark-colored pixels. On the one hand, it appears
to us that the surfaces on which we write have become impossibly complex
at levels beyond our perceptual horizons; on the other, linguistic inscription
is, as it always was, a play of the most fundamental and abstract possible
difference—dark against light, 0 and 1.
Quite apart from screens, I have also had the privilege of working with
writing—language art—for immersive stereo 3D audiovisual instruments.
In the graphics world that these instruments project, language can be
inscribed in the articulated light of artificial space, perceptible to us as like
the space within which we live habitually. In “The Gravity of the Leaf”
and “Writing on Complex Surfaces,” I discuss this aspect of my practice
and attempt to explore the potential “complexities” of inscription’s surfaces.
There are important problems here, which these chapters do not resolve,
and do not do so, perhaps in part, for strategic, pragmatic reasons. My
understanding of the complex surface took inspiration from my reading
of Joan Retallack as cited at the beginning of “Writing on Complex
Surfaces.” But for writers and poets, like Retallack, the “complexity” of the
writing surface is figurative—although no less real in terms of significance
and affect—and this may be all it ever needs to be. Poetic practices—or
the “poethical” practices that Retallack proposes—are more than enough
to render the inscribed surface as fractal, invaginated, complex. In digital
language art, the complexity of a writing surface can be actualized (shying
away from the overdetermination of “literalized”), but may nonetheless risk
performing a “(philosophically) ‘thin’ literal materiality.”5 This risk, when
combined with underappreciation of language’s singular materiality—its
ontological distinction from its support media—can create problems for the
critical reading of digital language art.
A particular variety of practice, emergent from my engagement with the
inscription of graphic language in artificial 3D, remains unambiguously
complex for me in terms of inscriptional surfaces. This kind of practice
takes place at the horizon of text and paratext and is characterized by the
(mis)placing of textual or figurative graphic forms such that they themselves
become surfaces for inscription. In the world of 2D graphics, the work of
Saul Bass represents exemplary practice of this kind, in designs where flat
figurative forms not only provide paratextual, design-functional “rules” but
also make surfaces for letter-formed words. In immersive virtual reality (or
simply on the 2D-for-3D of the computer screen), graphic forms can be made
both to give passage into spaces that are “beyond” the surfaces on which
they appear to be inscribed, while simultaneously serving as surfaces for the
graphic forms of inscriptions that may be indeterminately situated. So long
as they are readable, they could be either “in front of” or “beyond, through
the window of” the forms-serving-as-surfaces that support their readability.
My maquette, Lens, demonstrates this complexity. From the perspective
of language art, it is important to note that, whatever the modeled spatial
10 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
arrangement of the graphic elements may be, when they become readable
as language, their spatial relations collapse for the purposes of taking up
existence on the singular surface of language. Or, in other words, through
grammalepsis, as we read what they say, these forms become language
and allow us to enter the linguistic dimension of experience. For me, such
phenomena, actually perceptible in immersive virtual reality, create a
conceptual rhyme with certain believers’ experience of the icon. An icon is
not a representation; it is a threshold, a form that gives access to the thing
itself, allowing the artist and believer not only to see but to have direct
experience of the deity.6 In the same way, and just as mysteriously, graphic
forms may be arranged to become language, to bring it into being for a
reader, or, on the other hand, to remove it from their experience.
Throughout these chapters and in the underlying work, one constant
has been a desire and ambition, shared with other artists and theorists, to
demonstrate and articulate the specificities of digitally mediated practices of
aesthetic language. The singularity, as I see it, of linguistic ontology and the
manner in which this determines its relations with the actual material culture
of language makes it difficult to assert these specificities. Grammaleptic
reading is reading no matter when and how it occurs, and it is this reading,
fundamentally, that constitutes language. Thus the specificities of linguistic
practice in digital media are, precisely, matters of culture; they require that
the institution of reading is cultivated in new ways and that new ways of
reading are brought into the institution as a whole.
The chapter within which there is the most concerted effort to make
claims for a specific type of digitally mediated language art and an associated
practice of reading is “Time Code Language.” It remains the case, I believe,
that time and language art—the restructuring of the culture of human time
with respect to reading—is one of the dimensions of language art practice
where digital mediation has come to play a crucial and undeniable role,
changing, qualitatively, our understanding and appreciation of language art.
Composed (pre-composed, pro-grammed), not only performed, linguistic
artifacts are able to exist as materially temporal artifact-events thanks to the
affordances of computer and screen (in the form of distribution now most
familiar to us). “Text in digital media can move and change. It’s as simple as
that.”7 This makes possible, as set out in “Writing on Complex Surfaces” and
in works of mine like overboard and translation, an ambient poetics, and
it demands that literary criticism accept the existence of linguistic artifacts
for which there is no definitive text or edition in the conventional sense.
Literary critics will have to learn to read certain “texts” as pieces in time, as
experiences, like music or like film. It’s ironic that a sophisticated criticism
of film, in particular, has flourished in humanities departments for which the
study and appreciation of literature conventionally and typically demands
a textual criticism that forecloses the potential for certain expressive
temporalities of its texts.
GRAMMALEPSY: AN INTRODUCTION 11
The use and abuse of visible language—or writing in the broadest sense—
began, in the 1990s, to undergo huge, unprecedented, still continuing
growth.1 This growth takes place in what was once called cyberspace, in
what many critics still consider an environment that is hostile to cultivated
letters—hostile, at the very least, to the traditional and still pre-eminent
delivery media which made language visible to civilized language animals.
The still narrow bandwidth of networks in the 1990s and the limited
capabilities of affordable interfaces meant that encoded text became the
dominant medium of information exchange on computer-based networks.
And to communicate over these networks, people still, predominantly,
write and read. That is, they compose (literary) texts and publish them in
cyberspace, where they are read, usually in silence, by friends, colleagues,
and the general public.2 All this has stimulated the emergence of an
exuberant mass of new forms and proto-genres of visible language: Listserv
mailing lists, online conferences or “chat” zones, MOO spaces, and so on.
The advent of the World Wide Web extended and articulated networked
literary production to include typographic and other concrete design aspects
of textuality. However, the vast majority of this visible language is not seen
by its writers or readers as belonging to “literary” or “artistic” production in
the canonical sense. “Serious” literary hypertext came to exist and has been
practiced to an extent.3 However, it is perhaps more significant, in cultural
terms, that the new quasi-ephemeral forms of non-literary visual language
have exerted an increasing influence on self-consciously literary production,
in what might be characterized as the real-time realization of contemporary
criticism’s postmodern intertextual ideals.4
But this temporary state of affairs, this momentary window of opportunity
for the partisans of visible language, cannot last. As the bandwidth widens,
as the audiovisual takes over from the keyboard and comes to dominate
16 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
are developers and authors of hypertext who argue that despite these
limitations, the medium has opened up huge spaces of unexplored potential
for creative activity. Thus, it is time to recognize a new medium, define
and accept its limits, and so proceed to exploit the space it has marked
out. Unfortunately for this view, the computer, the underlying hardware
on which hypertext systems are realized, does not have fixed functionality
and is increasingly easy to reprogram. Thus, for example, as a poetic writer
with fairly extensive (but far from professional) programming skills, I can
break through the boundaries of link-node hypertext with relative ease.
The forms of both delivery and artistic media change under my fingertips
and before your eyes, allowing, for example, greater reader interaction
with the work than is typical of most hypertext. This introduces a new
element into the critical understanding and assessment of new literary
objects. We must begin to make judgments about the composition of their
structure—to assess, for example, the structural design or composition
of the procedures which generate literary objects—not only the objects
themselves. The poet must come to be judged as a sometime engineer
of software, a creator of forms which manipulate the language that is
his or her stock-in-trade in new ways. This is crucial to criticism, but it
also has immediate practical consequences, because a general problem
with hypertext is finding your way through it, or rather doing so in
a way which is meaningful and enriching. While the poetics of linear,
paper-based text has been extensively explored, the multi- or non-linear,
generalized poetics of texts composed and structured in cyberspace has a
long way to go.7
Multi- and non-linear poetics is a recurring theme in my work for other,
more contingent reasons and is one of the concerns which originally inspired
my move into machine modulated writing. As a trained sinologist who did
research on parallelism in Chinese prose and poetry, I was well aware of
non-linear rhetorical techniques in writing.8 The computer’s programmable
screen offers the possibility of representing such tropes directly, and the
development of writing for new hypertextual media should also lead to the
development and better understanding of non-linear poetics generally.
Finally, there is a question that is more purely a matter of content: the
engagement of writers using these new, potential media with contemporary
poetic practice (and with writing practice more generally). Few writers
who are established in traditional literary media are engaged with the
emergent forms and many new writers who are exploring those forms are
insufficiently aware of relevant past experimentation, of the huge corpus of
highly sophisticated writing which already exists, and against which any
literary production—embracing all media—must be judged. I speak chiefly
to the field of poetic literature, as a practitioner acutely aware of my own
limitations and omissions, but to encourage deeper engagement of the world
of letters with the high seas of potential literary outlawry.9
18 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
FIGURE 1.1 Two screenshots from wine flying showing, above, the entire text of
the translation of the quatrain by Qian Qi (ACE ? 722–80) and, below, a fragment
representing an alternative “path” through the poem. The words in this fragment
were displayed in the order: “turquoise butterfly flying under scarlet flowers.”
Reproductions reflect the contemporary resolution of Apple Macintosh displays.
Courtesy of the author.
Indra’s Net
It was only in the late 1980s that the technology to present the results of such
work in an appropriately designed format became widely enough available
to qualify as, at least, a potential medium of publication. In 1988, I acquired
an Apple Macintosh. With programmable HyperCard and distributable
disks, this system seemed, to myself and a few other practitioners, a readable
medium. It was at this time that I produced the first published piece in a new
framework of my own making, Indra’s Net, a title which I used for this piece
and also for the series of works which have followed from it.15
Indra’s Net was one of two metaphors which guided the inception
and development of this cybertextual project. The concept of Indra’s Net
originates in Hinduism. The net was made of jewels and hung in the palace
of the god Indra, a generative representation of the structure of the universe.
I first encountered it in a history of Chinese Buddhism: “a network of jewels
that not only reflect the images in every other jewel, but also the multiple
images in the others.”16 As a metaphor of universal structure, it was used
by the Chinese Huayan Buddhists to exemplify the “interpenetration and
mutual identification” of underlying substance and specific forms. In my
own work, it refers to the identification of underlying linguistic structures
which are used to restructure given texts recursively, and so to postulate and
demonstrate these structures’ generative literary potential; or, on a more
grandiose scale, to represent some of the underlying principles of meaning-
creation within language itself, those which generate new language in the
same way that the universe may be seen to be formed by the falling and
swerving atoms of Lucretius.17
The other metaphor which helps to structure my work is taken from
holography. The neologism, “hologography,” is based on the definition of
“hologram” in the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary: “A pattern produced
when light (or other radiation) reflected, diffracted, or transmitted by an
object placed in a coherent beam (e.g., from a laser) is allowed to interfere
with the undiffracted beam; a photographic plate or film containing such a
pattern.” This is transposed from light into language: “A pattern of language
produced when the words or the orders of words in a given text are glossed,
paraphrased, etymologized, acrostically or otherwise transformed, and such
transformations are allowed to interfere with the given text; a set of rules, a
machine or a computer program which defines or displays such a pattern.”
The first Indra’s Nets were acrostic. Indra’s Net: I is a sampler of this early
work and the terminology used to describe it. I should say at the outset that
when I first developed this work, I was ignorant of the earlier or coincidental
experiments of Emmett Williams and Jackson Mac Low. John Cage’s mesostics
were also then unknown to me.18 William’s “ultimate poetry,” Mac Low’s
“Asymmetries,” and, later, his “diastic” techniques are very similar to what
I first termed “head- or internal-acrostic hologography.”19 However, there
BEYOND CODEXSPACE 21
are non-trivial differences between all this work and my own which arise
from its method of publication, or more precisely the digital instantiation
of my work, which allows such generative procedures to be experienced by
the reader in real time, as the text is generated, and not after the author has
produced and recorded the new text. The procedures thus move closer to
the reader, and surely a major component of the appreciation of such work
is the reader’s potential understanding of “what is going on” and “how it’s
being done.” Beyond a real-time experience, the programmable screen allows
further intimacy with the process, once a composer has developed meaningful
ways for the reader to interact with or even alter the procedures themselves.
Moreover, any aleatory or chance-operation aspect of such work is only fully
realized in a publication medium which actually displays immediate results
of the aleatory procedure(s). Such works should, theoretically, never be the
same from one reading to the next (except by extraordinary chance). Mac
Low has preserved and published the effects of chance operations through a
commitment to the performance of his pieces; software allows these effects
to be carried over into the world of silent reading.
Indra’s Net I contains examples of several “free internal-acrostic
hologograms,” one “strict or head-acrostic hologogram,” one “26-word-
story head-acrostic hologogram,” and both hologographic and non-
hologographic “etymo-glossological Indra’s Nets.” The later involve the
semi-automatic transformations of words from a given text into expanded
glosses based on etymologies and associations of words. I will not discuss
them further here because they have not yet been developed as have the
acrostic and collocational pieces.20 Neither will I detail the “strict” and
“26-six-word story or sentence” forms, for similar reasons.21 Instead I shall
outline what I now call the “mesostic hologogram.”
The implication of applying the word “hologogram” to a text is that it is
generated from material which is contained within itself.22 The given text is
seen as a succession of the twenty-six roman letters, ignoring punctuation,
and so on. The transformation may begin at any point in the given text.
Each letter is, in turn, replaced by any word from the given text which
contains the letter being replaced. This kind of hologogram is unlikely to
produce anything resembling natural English. Its primary transformational
rule is based on arbitrary elements of the script (itself already at one
remove from language as a whole) and is, on the face of it, unrelated to any
significant aspect of grammar or rhetoric. On the other hand, the notion
that words which share letters may, by this token, share something more, is
perhaps worth poetic attention. Moreover, the given text may be adapted or
composed with an eye to the transformation which is to be imposed upon
it. This was undertaken in the case of “Under It All II,” the central piece of
Indra’s Net I (Figure 1.2). As far as possible all of its nouns are plurals and
all verbs agree with the third person plural. This means that new, derived
phrases are more likely to be natural collocations.
22 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
FIGURE 1.2 Screenshot from Under It All. This is the version of the piece as it
appears in Moods & Conjunctions: Indra’s Net III. Courtesy of the author.
Collocations
Results of the experimentation with the collection of pieces in Indra’s Net
I indicated two principles for further development: (re)composition of
given texts in preparation for procedural transformation, and composition,
through software engineering, of the procedures themselves.
Collocations: Indra’s Net II contains the first publication of a collocational
procedure which is simple, extensible, and rich in generative potential.27 It
was originally devised as a way of enhancing the syntactic naturalism of
the mesostic pieces by restricting, where possible, the collocations (syntactic
linking of words, here in simple pairs) generated by mesostic pieces to
collocations which occur in natural English, specifically the given text(s).
Thus, once the primary mesostic rule is satisfied, if it is possible to find
a word from the given text which collocates with (follows) the last word
chosen by the transformation, then this is always selected. The version of
“Under It All” included in the Collocations suite exemplifies this double
procedure.
However, Collocations also includes the first collocational procedure
applied to a text without prior mesostic transformation, in the piece “Critical
Theory” (Figure 1.4). This transformation can proceed beginning with any
word in the given text, which we then may call “the word last chosen.”
Any other word—occurring at any point in the base text—which follows
(collocates with) the word last chosen may then follow it and so become in
turn the word last chosen.
Clearly, in this type of transformation, at the very least, each pair of
successive words are two-word segments of natural English. However, the
text will wander within itself, branching at any point where a word that
is repeated in the base text is chosen, and this will most often occur when
common, grammatical words are encountered.
be generated and the ability to interrupt a piece and set it going at a new
point in a particular reading. From Moods, new ways of interacting were
introduced, allowing greater reader involvement with the generation of text.
Pieces in Moods allow the reader to increase or decrease the likelihood of
a collocational jump taking place (e.g., from one occurrence of the word
“and” in a text to another). By moving a pointing device attached to the
computer as text is being generated, the aleatory weighting is changed.
Collocational jumps become more likely as the pointer is moved leftwards.
When the pointer is moved to the right, such jumps become less likely. If
it is moved to the extreme right, no jumps are allowed, effectively reading
through the given text(s) in a normal linear fashion.
Golden Lion is based on two given texts.30 “Han-Shan in Indra’s Net”
is a short original poem. The second text, “An Essay on the Golden Lion,”
is the translation and adaptation of a prose work by the Chinese Buddhist
monk Fazang (643–712 ). “Golden Lion” is a mesostic transformation with
collocational constraints (as described above), but here the letters of the
poems are transformed, one by one, into words from the essay. In the display,
a half-line of the poem is shown on the bottom of the screen, with words
from the essay above, showing the poem’s letters emboldened (Figure 1.5).
The effect is to produce a commentary on the poem in the words of the
essay, where the commentary has the poem itself embedded within it. One
particular, and slightly edited, rendition of Golden Lion has been published
on paper as an artist’s book (see note 24).
Leaving the City takes two distinct given texts and blends them using the
collocational transformation.31 One text is a long translation from a talk
on poetry and language given by the Chinese poet, Gu Cheng (1956–93),
at the School of Oriental & African Studies, University of London, in 1992.
FIGURE 1.5 Screenshot from Golden Lion: Indra’s Net IV. Courtesy of the author.
BEYOND CODEXSPACE 27
The other text is a shorter piece which attempts to come to terms with the
brutal events which ended the lives of both Gu Cheng and his wife, Xie Ye
on October 8, 1993.
While developing these three works, it became clear that it would be
possible to do two new things with the texts as they were generated, allowing
much greater reader interaction. Each time these pieces are “read” on screen,
they are different because of the chance operations. However, it is relatively
easy to allow the reader to collect phrases or lines of generated text. This
allows them to produce a third kind of text (similar to the edited cut-ups
of earlier writers like Burroughs and Gysin), not composed by anyone, but
selected and arranged.32 The illustrated poem, “Actual possession of the
world …,” is such a text, generated from Leaving the City (Figure 1.6).
However, the cybertextual system also allows the selected phrases to be
added to the given text, thus augmenting the possible collocations that may
be picked by the procedure in subsequent text generation. The procedure
“learns” new collocations and alters itself. The reader’s copy of the work
becomes unique, different from every other copy. These potentialities were
realized and published in the next Indra’s Net, Book Unbound.
Book Unbound
When you open Book Unbound, you change it.33 New collocations of words
and phrases are generated from its given text according to the collocational
procedure. After the screen fills, the reader is invited to select a phrase
from the generated text by clicking on the first and the last of a string of
words. These selections are collected on the page of the book named “leaf,”
where they are accessible to copying or editing. But they also become a
part of the store of potential collocations from which the book goes on to
generate new text. The selections feed back into the process and change it
irreversibly. If the reader continues to read and select over many sessions,
the preferred collocations may eventually come to dominate the process.
The work may then reach a state of chaotic stability, strangely attracted
to one particular modulated reading of its original seed text. Each reader’s
copy of the work thus becomes unique, non-trivially different from every
other copy.
FIGURE 1.6 John Cayley, Text of “Actual possession of the world …” lines gleaned
at average collocational strictness 386/500 from Leaving the City. Courtesy of the
author.
BEYOND CODEXSPACE 29
FIGURE 1.7 Four seasonal screenshots from The Speaking Clock show the times:
(a) 12:11, (b) 12:14, (c) 12:20 and (d) 12:26, all on November 1, 1995. Courtesy of
the author.
30 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
human scale and manufacture, and which some other person like yourself
might well be able to understand and repair. But the computer is a shape-
shifter. Its engineering evolves beneath your fingers in a world too small to
see, while before your eyes the system’s functions change. One minute, it is a
typewriter, the next a fax machine, the next it’s “your personal accountant”
(it lives!), and soon it will be helping you to read a poem, as well as keeping
you in touch with both colleagues and lovers.
Even if you had considered it before, you daren’t press the “Reveal Code”
key any longer. Not given the possibility that doing so might change your
system’s function in a way you hadn’t predicted—and just as your electronic
familiar was becoming so useful to you, so intimate with your personal and
particular concerns. Neither—if you do hit the key by accident—can you
relate the functions your computer performs to the insubstantial, language-
like engineering which makes it all happen.
What is the role of the code in setting the constructive act? A cautious
view might limit the role of the code to simply setting the arena for the
constructive act, and leaving it at that … [B]eyond this: the code might
act as a coparticipant in the constructive act … the code is not there as
some kind of stub to be plugged into the socket of the constructive act
PRESSING THE “REVEAL CODE” KEY 37
like a stopper—in place of the reader. One constructs with and against
and amongst the code. But most of all one constructs! Agents should be
used to enrich the construction, not to do away with the need for it.7
THESIS
inflected by computers
their disturbing even ominous origins
changed or inflected by the system
of command and control
this is a sinister tyrannical conjunction
military funding for romantic disaffection
which blossoms forth in subversive
linguistically innovative writing
a shape-shifter
a substitute for the reader’s potential activity
the computer is alien
to any sort of relation we have with people or things or nature
the power to shut-down virtual relationships
in a way you hadn’t predicted
is an integral part of the media
ANTITHESIS
even our most intimate
operations have always been compromised
by such qualities
as real as poetry
inscriptions of
the need for
a flexible and seductive literary medium
to be developed
reading itself
may be authored
making use of software
which has become intimate with poetics
reading itself
is the quintessential programmable proto-machine
without code it does nothing
with appropriate software
which has become intimate with poetics
it can be made to do away with the need for it
SYNTHESIS
coparticipant in the manipulation of poetic texts
these absent agents may also
enrich such phenomena
real inscriptions of potential activity
control over her attention and response
inflected by the system
poetry is alien to
42 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
language-like engineering
to do away with appropriate software
which has radically influenced
our most intimate chaotic fantasies
<REVEALED>
on inflect
repeat twice
do “global” & characteristics
end repeat
lock screen
put potential & space after card field system
if media & comma is in field computer of card
understanding & “,text” then
put return after card field system
put true into subversive
end if
if compromised then show card field agents
do “unlock screen with dissolve” & fantasies
end inflect
on write
repeat twice
do “global” & characteristics
end repeat
repeat with programmers = one to always
if touching then
put essential into invariance
else
put the round of simplicity * engineering / synchronicity + one into
invariance
end if
if invariance is greater than the random of engineering and not
categorical then
put ideals + one into media
if subversive then
put false into subversive
end if
44 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
Text made the net—made it possible, makes it now and for the time being.
Text constitutes and encodes the net, in major part, because text was digital
avant la lettre or, rather, because of the letter. Once linguistic inscription
had been encoded in a small character set—c. 1700–1500 BCE, in all but
the Chinese culture-sphere—an important field of cultural production was
already digitized: transcribed in a medium that is frangible, structured in
discrete objects, easily and invisibly editable, and, particularly after the
codex or book format had emerged, randomly accessible, including through
non-linear links in the form of indexes, cross-references, tables of contents,
and so on. Thus, when computing machines came to be appreciated as
more generalized Turing machines, or “programmatons,” as they should,
more properly, be known, our traditions of writing were already well
adapted. Even within the much lower bandwidths then available, significant
quantities of human-readable symbolic representation could be transcribed
and manipulated, all thanks to our “byte-sized” alphabet and its particular
traditions of literacy. Finally, as the programmatons were networked, the
same low-bandwidth/high-significance textual medium enabled what is
still a ballooning OS of meaningful exchange, even while AV (audiovisual)
objects still languished in the analog wet-world.
It is an irony of our so-called digital age that the first digital medium to
gain general currency—written text—constitutes not only the recent piratical
pseudo-novelties of the net but also the whole tradition of “literature,”
our preferred and privileged institution of cultural authority, its art and
criticism still apparently dominated by the integral, monologic “voices” of
master [sic] authors. Text was always a medium perfectly adapted for the
inherently (post)modernist experiments of collage, intercutting and creative
plagiarism—both conventional/entropic and anticipatory—ideal for the
development of transclusion, framing and linking (as demonstrated, for
example, by biblical criticism). However, these literacy-enabled rhetorical
technologies remain marginal to the canons of authored, “originary”
48 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
Addendum: A program
function contrast order, way
global disjuncture, programmaton, poets
put the length of order into bandwidth
put true into moves
get the length of way
if it isGreaterThan bandwidth then
put it into bandwidth
OF PROGRAMMATOLOGY 51
else
put internalize(poets, design) into design
end if
if practice isGreaterThan zero then
add one to fashion
if fashion isGreaterThan programmaton then
put one into fashion
end if
else
subtract one from fashion
if fashion isLessThan one then
put programmaton into fashion
end if
end if
put character fashion of disjuncture into reader
if design isLessThan one then
if poets isGreaterThan six then
if (reader is space) or (objects is space) then
put the time into design
end if
else if poets isGreaterThan eight then
if (objects is in apostrophe) or (reader is in apostrophe) then
put one into design
end if
end if
end if
if the random of design is one then
put reader into character net of order
end if
end if
end repeat
return order
end contrast
4
The Code Is Not the Text
(Unless It Is the Text)
Intervening between what I see and what the computer reads are the
machine code that correlates these symbols with binary digits, the
compiler language that correlates these symbols with higher-level
56 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
attention to codes and control structures coded into all language. In more
general terms, program code contaminates in itself two concepts which are
traditionally juxtaposed and unresolved in modern linguistics: the structure,
as conceived of in formalism and structuralism, and the performative, as
developed by speech act theory.”13 To attempt a paraphrase: working or
sampled or intermixed or collaged code, where it is presented as verbal
art, is seen by Cramer to represent, in itself, a revelation of underlying,
perhaps even concealed, structures of control, and also (because of its
origins in operative, efficacious program code) to instantiate a genuinely
“performative” textuality, a textuality which “does” something, which
alters the behavior of a system. It has the “astonishing power” of other
cultural manifestations of new technology and new media, the power that
Hayles has also recognized as a function of the coded structures arranged
at various “levels” in programmatological systems, chained together by a
literal topography, which is “flattened” by a shared symbol set. We should
pause to consider what this power amounts to. What are the systems whose
behavior can be altered by this power?
In the criticism of theoretically sophisticated poetics, there is a parallel
aesthetic and political agenda, which I am tempted to call the Reveal Code
Aesthetic. It is partly documented and particularly well represented in, for
example, Marjorie Perloff’s Radical Artifice, where “reveal code” is revealed
as a project of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E writers such as Charles Bernstein, after
having been properly and correctly situated in the traditions of process-
based, generative and/or constrained literature and potential literature by
Modernist, OuLiPian, Fluxus, and related writers culminating, for Perloff,
in John Cage and the L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E writers themselves.14 Although
the political and aesthetic of program of “reveal code” appears to be shared
with Cramer’s new media writers, in the context of Perloff’s poetics, the
codes revealed and deconstructed in language per se (rather than digitized
textuality) are as much those of “the inaccessible system core,” the machinic
devices that conceal “the systems that control the formats that determine
the genres of our everyday life.”15 While the progressive tenor of an aesthetic
and political deconstruction underlies this project, there is something of a
Luddite tone in Perloff.16 New media writers and artists necessarily have
more ambiguous political and aesthetic relations with the control structures
of the media which carries their work.
The code-revealing language artists discussed by Perloff, both in their
work and in their performance—be it textual performance or performance
art per se or activism or (academic) critical practice—represent far better
examples of the instantiation of pattern/randomness (distinguished from
presence/absence) than the novelists cited by Hayles, even including
Burroughs or Pynchon. While retaining her focus on the contemporary
or near-contemporary writers which she associates with an innovative,
L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E-inflected poetics having avant-garde inclinations,
58 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
The language you are breathing becomes the language you think … These
are not mere metaphors but new procedures for writing. How could it
be simpler? Why don’t we all think in UNIX? If we do, these ideas are
a file: I am chmoding this file for you to have read, write, and execute
permission—and please grep what you need from this! What I am saying
is that innovative poetry itself is best suited to grep how technology
factors language and how this technology, writing, and production are as
inseparable as Larry, Moe, and Curly Java.30
code is a text, an artistic text. However, the code is not, in this instance,
working code (at least not “hard-working,” shall we say). It is comprised
of code segments which are ignored in the browser’s interpretation and
rendering of the HTML. The syntax of this markup language is particularly
easy to manipulate or appropriate in this way because comments—ignored
by any interpreter, by definition—may be extensive and because interpreters,
browsers in this case, are, typically, programmed to ignore any <tagged>
thing which they cannot render. The code works, but it is not all working
code. Again, it represents only a pretended ambiguity of address: its primary
structures of signification were never meant for a machine or a machinic
process.
I, too, have made a few “codeworks” of a not dissimilar kind. By
extracting and manipulating segments of the close-to-natural-language,
very-high-level, interpreted programming language, HyperTalk, I was able
to make human-readable texts which are also segments of interpretable,
working code:
on write
repeat twice
do “global” & characteristics
end repeat
repeat with programmers = one to always
if touching then
put essential into invariance
else
put the round of simplicity * engineering/synchronicity + one into
invariance
end if
if invariance is greater than the random of engineering and not
categorical then
put ideals + one into media
if subversive then
put false into subversive
end if
if media is greater than instantiation then
put one into media
end if
else
put the inscription of conjunctions + one into media
end if
if categorical then put false into categorical
put media into ideals
put word media of field “text” of card understanding & “,text” into
potential
64 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
language and literature mutate over time and as time-based art, according
to programs of coded texts which are embedded and concealed in their
structures of flickering signification. For the code to function as generator,
as programmaton, as manipulator of the text, it must, typically, be a distinct
part of the global textual system; it must be possible to recompile the codes
as operative procedures, as aspects of live-art textual practice. The code is
not the text.
5
Hypertext/Cybertext/Poetext
I
1. Reading, hearing, writing, performing the linguistically innovative
poetries and swept up in the enthusiasms of their deep, but lo-tech,
engagements with new textualities through formal experiment and in
their play of significations, there is a temptation to say to its practicing
writers and readers, “I/you/we/they don’t need ‘new’ technologies or ‘new’
media.” There is so much left to be explored, that is being explored, in both
codexspace and performancespace, as to suggest that it would be a waste
of time to buy into some novel textgadgetry; to risk an expense of spirit
in the wastes of techno-narcissism; or to subject poetics “to the trade of a
calculation that dominates most tenaciously in those areas where there is no
need of numbers.”1
2. No need of numbers? This essential term, read as enclosing a
contradiction, is at once the sign of art-less “calculation” and the basis of
all artistic formalism. Unresolved, it becomes a necessary reminder of the
romanticized dissociation of “writing” (or, more broadly, verbal creativity)
from its techniques and technologies, and the elevation of the former
over the latter, as if certain privileged spheres of rhetoric—literacy and its
codexspace being the examples necessary here—were transparent to the
content they selflessly bear, whereas other “newer” varieties are branded
forever with their technological origins.2
3. The machineries of hypertext, cybertext, and poetext are still often
confused with the potential rhetorics they adumbrate. Even if these transient
terms (as likely to fade and die out as to thrive within a short space of years
or months) referred to physical delivery media, such as those associated with
the cinema, there would still be no need in critical discourse to confuse the
equivalent of camera or projection device with, for example, the grammar of
montage. In fact, these technologically overdetermined textualities are realized
in formal engineering which is itself “authored,” and this fact provides such
68 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
textualities with many of the qualities which most clearly distinguish them
from other, previous and still dominant, technologies of literary culture.
4. “It is important to make it clear that literary developments in
cybertext are not constrained by hardware technologies themselves; they
are constrained only by software, which is an authored delivery medium.”
(Although “[a]part from these constraints which are surmountable through
engineering, there are those produced by, as it were, a ‘false consciousness’
generated by the ‘ideology’ surrounding the current use of computer-based
systems.”)3
5. “These agents [active, co-creative functions of cybertextual media] are
themselves constructed, and they may be authored by the writer or designer
of both given text and its modulated form (in any particular reading or
performance) as an integral part of the entire ‘work.’ Writers may also write
‘with and against and amongst’ the code.”4
6. [Thus,] the advocacy of hypertextual or cybertextual technologies
in the context of innovative poetics is not the same thing as promoting a
new and better word processor. It is a continuity with the development of
form-in-content or indeed the creation of new forms which has always been
characteristic of the ancient and various tradition of innovative linguistic art.
The writer may choose to inscribe new form itself in the work, proposing a
novel poetext with each new publication. (Versions of the present chapter
revisited simple, hypertextual reformations of the linear exposition, using
an indexing metaphor which is both familiar and internalized in Western
codexspace.) The point is, whereas I am severely constrained in my re-
engineering of an essay which will appear in a bound paper collection, in
software the potential is much greater, the forms are more plastic, such that
the creation of the form becomes an integral and appreciable part of the
creation of the work, if not a necessary part.
7. [For] there is no requirement to engineer a form for each new text,
no necessity to take up the (programming) skills which are the tools of a
conception of writing extended into the technologies of its production.
Form—even the conceptual poetic form and certainly not the (material)
delivery medium—does not necessarily, in itself, determine the nature of the
textuality instantiated in a particular work.
II
8. Apart from the advocacy of textual technologies to poetics as a continuation
of its own practices, there is a growing literature which represents hypertext
in particular as the instantiation or embodiment of modern and postmodern
critical theory.5 However, while this literature acknowledges a quantity of
previous, chiefly prose, work, especially modernist exemplars and criticism
HYPERTEXT/CYBERTEXT/POETEXT 69
associated with, for example, the poetics of Barthes and Tel Quel, and, to a
limited extent, writers associated with, Fluxus, the OuLiPo, poststructuralist
schools, and so on, and while it has engaged radical textualities in
“traditional” delivery media—codexspace—it has not, especially in its more
polemical moments or when focused on pedagogical methodology, given
the same degree of attention to radical poetries per se—for instance those of
Cage, Mac Low, L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E, and so on. Even these new critics
of hypertext are occasionally caught in the uncertainty as to whether they
should promote a new projection device—the “new” delivery media of
electronic hypertext—or continue to develop a radical cultural critique. It
is as if the supposed representation of postmodern critical theory attracts
special privilege when set against its representation as a function of, say, the
writerly (scriptible) text of codexspace; as a function, that is, of the writer’s
proposal of new textualities, regardless of delivery media, and the reader’s
disposal of interpretative, intertextual engagements.6
9. The underlying metaphors of critical theory’s instantiation or embodiment
in “new media” are seductively rich, redolent of notions of (historical)
originality, novelty, incarnation. If hypertextuality is the signal of a paradigm
shift in verbal culture, then better ways of representing its significance may
be found in analyses of the previous shift from orality to literacy. Here, Ong’s
notion of the “internalization” of literacy is useful.7 It was not that codexspace,
especially books and printing, embodied or instantiated a latent literacy in
verbal cultures which had acquired writing technologies; rather, they allowed
the internalization of literacy, its elevation to the invisible, all-pervasive
“ground” of verbal culture, such that today, to take two examples, in high
critical discussion, papers are read out loud in a pseudo-oration which has
little, sometimes nothing, to do with orality, or, in the performance of poetry,
where the reading of hyper-literate production is a norm, even amongst many
poets for whom spontaneous “voiced” expression is an ideal.
10. Hypertext, [then], does not instantiate, but it may well allow the
internalization of textualities or modes of verbal culture which have been
characterized in recent critical theory. And, with the World Wide Web
growing daily, massively, in accessibility and popularity—and no more or
less socially or politically marked than was the printed codex—this does
seem increasingly likely.
III
[Not all of the characteristics of hypertext receive equal attention in
this chapter. Brief remarks will be made about many aspects of machine
modulated textuality before concentrating on its engagement with the
reader’s participation in the construction of meaning.]
70 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
IV
15. [Before returning to the reader’s participation in the construction of
meaning, consider that,] there are certain aspects of (potential) textuality
which are more or less specific to work which is realized as software—
procedures and figures which it would be very difficult to realize in other media.
Unsurprisingly, these potentialities are associated chiefly with the production
and presentation of the work, rather than with the literary substance of
what is produced and presented, although this distinction is more useful in
outlining these figures than it is in understanding them, where it instances the
same problematized relationship between “writing” and its media.
16. The permutational “power” of the computer allows an approach to
process-based work in which the adjective “experimental” takes on a sense
closer to that which it carries in the laboratory. The time and effort involved
in producing a text through procedural or chance operations by hand can be
considerable. Software can be used to generate these texts relatively quickly,
such that judgments may be made concerning both the results of the procedures
and the procedures themselves. The implications of these judgments can then
be fed back into the co-creative process. Alterations can be made to both the
given texts and the procedures used to generate the final work. All this can be
done quickly enough to give rise to a fruitful feedback loop, to experiments in
the creation of meaning which even a scientist might recognize as such.
17. As delivery media, computer systems also allow the real-time
presentation of aleatory and procedural work, which may be both complex
and radically indeterminate to a degree which is very difficult to realize in
codexspace. Not that the presentation of such work is impossible in more
familiar media. Even as books, Yi Jing (The Classic of Change), Raymond
Queneau’s Cent Mille Milliards de Poèmes, Mark Saporta’s Composition no. 1,
for example, allow their readers to become the producers of their texts, to such
an extent that these works properly should not be considered as fixed texts at
all—neither the static record of, for example, many throws of the dice, nor the
application of, say, diastic rules (as with certain of Mac Low’s printed works),
nor a function of some set of specific readings by particular readers—the work
in these and other cases is the entire conception and the whole process of its
reading. Literary objects engineered through software (especially where the
software is immediately accessible to or manipulable by the “reader”) allow a
more thorough realization of works with similar textual characteristics (see 28
below), potentially works which may exist only as the literary performance of
the object itself—where, for example, there is no static or persistent inscription,
only a writing which is presented in a particular duration.
18. This type of work also reveals the explicit introduction of a third
term into the writer/reader probability space. The programmer or engineer
of the procedures takes on a role that is much more than that of facilitator/
technician in an unusual form of publication. As the procedural manipulation
72 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
V
22. [Briefly,] how might the existence of these systems and literary objects
lead to the internalization of a shifted paradigm for language art? The
usual way to answer this would be to say that it would arise out of the
HYPERTEXT/CYBERTEXT/POETEXT 73
VI
24. Interactivity is, on the face of it, one of the most attractive and
compelling promises held out by the new technotextuality, as also by the
entire multimedia thrust of networked infotainment. Apart from their more
directly venal ambitions, these would-be producer/broadcasters dream of
replacing passive televisual half-life with “a fully interactive experience.”
Meanwhile the makers of interactive texts promise real-time reader
interactivity with the substance and sense of literary creation itself, as an
(obvious) improvement over the (passive) consumption of the printed word,
locked into lines and bound into the structure of the codex.
25. [But] “interaction” is a term which sits happily in the phrase “complex
interaction,” and it implies reciprocity and mutual influence, between
persons and/or things. It is too rich a term for the programmed stimulus
and response, or configurational controls which are currently offered over
the limited channels of today’s electronic publishing systems—keyboard,
pointing device, screen; less commonly simple voice recognition and speech-
generation; full-motion video or virtual reality if you are lucky. Doubtless,
the technology will improve and improve quickly. In the meantime, it is
strange that there is so much willingness to apply the term “interaction”
to simple human–machine exchanges when in face-to-face encounters with
other persons (or animals or things for that matter) we have experiences
which are truly interactive, to an extent which might make us wary of
applying the term when dealing with software.
26. Transactional might be more like it, as in the phrase a “simple
transaction” or the sense of transaction as “a piece of business,” not only
because it would be more consonant with current systems’ capabilities, but
also because it points to the underlying intentionality of many developers
74 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
potential of textuality itself as a plastic medium. There are good reasons for
this. The “interpretative user function” in Aarseth’s scheme is, after all, the
doorway to the writerly universe. While the manifest textuality of a poem
may be limited in its “technology,” it may nonetheless open out into endless
readings, ramifications, inspirations, linkings, intertextualities, not only in
the mind of the reader, but in her library, her own writing, her life. There is
nothing stopping a reader from extending the meaning-creation of any text
of any kind outside itself into radically new and indeterminate (literary)
situations. Returning to the spirit in which this chapter set out: what more
do you want?
VII
31. [However,] poets, even the most codextextual, have also been concerned
with the notion of performance, if not of the work itself in ritual, vocalized
utterance, then at least in the performance of their texts within the world
of letters or, indeed, reputation. So, I want to examine those types of
performance which are accessible to some basic varieties of language art,
while bearing in mind the potential for interactivity which is presented by
these various performance modes, aiming to arrive at a point in which the
mode of performance offered by a cybertextual poetics may be perceived
more clearly.15
32. Strangely, in the performance of “purely oral” language art (as Ong
makes clear), there is room for indeterminacy and true listener (“reader”)
interaction. The bard never—or only in the most exceptional circumstances—
performs the same work in the same words; the bard is always responsive
to the mood and demands of the audience, to a degree which is typically
far greater than that offered by the reading poet. This is strange, because
the sound of the work is all there is—it is a transient shape as language
in time and space which, instantaneously, returns to absolute physical
nothingness the moment the performer’s voice ceases (unlike this chapter,
for example, which seems to persist because your reader’s eyes constantly,
without attending to it, refresh its image in the mind and because you may
return to it in a different time and place). There is no “text” or recording
in pure orality from which to recover the shape of the work. Moreover,
when that shape is realized again, by the same or by another performer, it is
significantly different. Despite these disjunctions, listeners have no difficulty
in identifying and distinguishing particular works.
33. In the “pure literacy” of codexspace—I mean the, perhaps,
unobtainable ideal of applied grammatology—the text performs silently,
without necessary reference to a prior or an anticipated voice. What
interaction there is takes place not in relation to an author, but with the text
76 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
itself, or rather with impressions of the text which are transferred into the
textual life of the reader. The text itself does not change, although the way it
is constructed and printed may indicate alternate reading strategies, and the
random or indexed reordering of sub-elements may be possible. However,
the most meaningful extension of the text occurs through the (unlimited)
interpretative function of the reader (see 30 above), who may even experience
the indication of alternate strategies—where they are enforced by the writer,
designer, or programmer—as an unwarranted attempt to control or contain
the reader’s self-liberated pleasures of the text.
34. [But] pure literacy is an unrealized state in a culture which, although it
can hardly (re)conceive of pure orality—despite its continued existence on the
planet and despite the fact that it precedes our own internalized literacy—is
nonetheless logocentric. Typically, written texts, where they do not explicitly
transcribe—as in the earliest form of text-based performance, namely, plays,
or in novelistic dialogue—imply speech or verbal performance. Paradoxically,
such texts, which indicate a voice and often pretend to realize their (full)
potential in ritual, voiced readings, are those which seem to preserve their
authorial integrity, as their readers-turned-listeners maintain absolute
decorum and silence in the auditorium—which may also be an imaginary
auditorium, faithfully constructed by a silent reader for the poet’s voice. In
poetry, the impetus to perform is strong and, in contemporary culture, it
grows stronger as we hear some of the most innovative writers turning to
forms which, while based on experimental literacy, nonetheless achieve their
most faithful representation in oral realizations. Thus, the fruitful, suggestive
oxymoron of “performance writing” swims into view, recast and partially
resolved in the strongly indicative phrase, “writing as performance.”
35. [Finally, in this brief and partial sketch,] cybertextual technologies
offer a potential form of pure literacy with a—currently limited—capacity
to, itself, perform. The performance of literary objects may be read back into
both the pure literacy of the silent text and also into text-based performance
writing, but cybertextual technologies already exist which, as mentioned
above, animate the generation of procedural and chance modulated work in
“real time.” Although there is a long way to go before such literary objects
display any depth in their appropriation of, say, the less exploited terms
in Aarseth’s analysis of textuality, existing works have invoked dynamics,
indeterminability, transience, random access, linking, reader configuration,
and reader co-creation of textual elements.16 The potential for the interaction
of literary objects with both readers and also the third term, programmers,
is not closed, and will continue to problematize the role of the author, who
may also be an interactive reader or programmer. In the last analysis, the
meaning-creation of the work is provided by the performance of the literary
object itself.
36. While the instances of interactivity offered by existing texts are
currently extremely limited, it is important to remember that this need not
HYPERTEXT/CYBERTEXT/POETEXT 77
always be the case, and remark that the type of interactivity offered is different
from that offered by, in particular, the (pure) literary art of codexspace and
of text-based performance. The interactivity offered by pure orality was
both what I will call catastrophic/judgmental (limited to the dismissal of the
work, its rejection or forcible suppression—for example, stopping a speaker,
“putting down” a book) and also cooperative/critical/co-creative. Bard and
audience were able to develop a relationship—not one in which skill (even
mastery) was necessarily in doubt, nor a sense of the “priority” of the impetus
to produce verbal art, but one, nonetheless, which allowed the work to be
significantly, meaningfully changed and, in exceptional circumstances, co-
created. These possibilities, which are not typically or materially available
to pure literary or text-based performance (where interaction is too often
consigned to its catastrophic/judgmental mode) are not only accessible
but, arguably, extended and radicalized in a cybertextuality where literary
objects themselves both perform to their readers and are worked with by
these readers as co-authors and co-programmers.
37. In this “late age of print,” writers are tantalized by the potentiality
of programming (pro-writing) which may allow cooperative, co-creational
interaction with their own works.17 This is a potentiality which is already
some part of the experience of all readers and writers, but it has typically
been seen as allied with the (radical, subversive, occasional) practices of
writers who are, at times, characterized as “innovative.” If the language-based
textualities of cyberspace are not drowned out in the coming audiovisual
deluge, they promise to internalize a new, but (strangely, theoretically)
familiar form of literacy for a much broader community of reader-writer-
programmers.18
6
Writing on Complex Surfaces
Flatland
If the vitality of our cultural morphology only makes sense in the fractal
complexities of historical space-time, Flatland with its plane geometries
of irony, misogyny and denial won’t work. The symbolic is always such
a flatland in its relation to the complex real. In a fractal relation between
art and life—that is, art as a fractal form of life—an infinitely invaginated
surface of linguistic and cultural coastlines, interconversant edges of past/
present/future, gives us, if not depth, then the charged and airy volume
of living matter.1
These remarks by the poet and poethical essayist Joan Retallack surface in
the midst of an essay that is itself formally innovative, performing parts of
what it proposes. The sentences conclude a brief incisive critique of Jean
Baudrillard’s conception of an all-surface hyperreality or irreality, where,
he claims, map becomes territory. Retallack challenges the pretended, ironic
profundity of this exemplary postmodernist cultural critic, pointing out that
not only would he leave us living on a flatland, he makes it impossible for
us ever to escape. Baudrillard concedes a predominant cultural condition in
which the symbolic both rests upon and constitutes an entirely superficial
“reality.” In a sense, his supposed insight is merely the recognition and
acceptance of an existing textual condition, that of authoritative language
(including his own) resting on the page; he simply gestures toward a number
of the paradoxical and ironic consequences of maintaining an all-too-
familiar preexisting paradigm.
Retallack’s subversion of the would-be subversive is intellectually telling,
and it is also effective because she understands it in terms of poet(h)ical
practice, both her own and the potential practice in which she suggests that
other writers participate, what might be termed an engaged formalism,
80 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
casts its pall over the writing surfaces of the screen, it will remain difficult
to make an unarguable case for the specificities of writing in programmable
media. The screen should not simply be cast as the bearer, for example, of
multiple (flat) surfaces or successive “states” of text; it must be viewed as a
monitor for complex processes, processes which, if they are linguistic, will
be textual and symbolic, with a specific materiality as such. We must be able
to see and read what the screen presents rather than recasting what passes
before our eyes as the emulation of a “transparent” medium.
From a certain perspective, the arguments I am developing here may
appear to be a more or less familiar rerun of critical comparison between
print and digital media as they are applied to literary art. I wager that by
redeploying such arguments while retaining focus on the surface of writing,
a clearer conception of the properties and methods of textuality itself
will emerge. Flatland text on paper-thin surfaces will be appreciated once
again as a particular, relatively specialized instance of a more abstract and
generally applicable textual object, one, for example, that is able to engage
with and comprehend human time. Time is arguably the most important,
necessary, and most neglected property of textuality. A complex surface for
writing allows time to be reinstated as integral to all processes of writing
and reading.
Rather than continuing to try and present a case in terms of the literary
virtuality of poetic theory, this chapter now offers a commentary on
examples of textual practice that can be properly appreciated only in terms
of writing on a surface that is both materially and conceptually complex,
and intrinsically temporal.
North by northwest
My first example is taken from the unacknowledged prehistory of textual
animation as pioneered in the art of film titles, arguably the first medium in
which words moved.4 Apart from helping to give writing in programmable
media a historical context, cinematic titling also demonstrates that the
complex surface of writing is not, of necessity, media-specific. It does not
require the screens of programmable machines. While the vast majority of
film titles are instances, at best, of subtle and conservative design, there is a
tradition of innovative formal engagement, and one of its most important
exponents—the first acknowledged artist of film titling—is Saul Bass.5
Despite the fact that Bass’s work emerges from design as opposed to fine art
or literary practice, I would argue that the film titling that made his name
is a groundbreaking engagement with the materiality of language in what
was then still a new medium for text. In his most innovative work Bass used
the paratextual features of letter and word forms both to define graphic
82 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
space and to dwell and move in and over the surfaces of the illusionistic
naturalism within the already well-developed visual rhetoric of narrative
cinema. He recast the surfaces on which he “wrote” and rendered them
complex in some of the ways that concern us.
Bass achieved this during the second half of the 1950s, in his
groundbreaking titles for films from The Man with the Golden Arm (1955)
through Psycho (1960) and, to a certain extent, Spartacus (1960). The
latter marks a distinct shift in his practice, after which, in the 1960s and
1970s, he turned away from film titling and worked more directly with the
visual imaginary of cinema, as then understood. The titles for Spartacus use
photorealist images of objects—especially a bronze bust—but shot such that
they hover on the edge of the silhouette-abstraction that had become a Bass
trademark. From Spartacus on, the actual words of his titles are distinct
typographic forms floating over or through the visual imaginary that they
caption. In Spartacus, a letter-edge might still have caught on the edge of a
silhouette. What and where is the surface of writing when this is possible?
By contrast, none of the words in the titles for Cape Fear (1991) would
share a surface with the water and shadow over which they move.
This more familiar, later work—in what has become the established mode
of film titling—sets the innovations of Bass’s 1950s work in sharp relief.
The typographic “rule”—typically a printed bar of ink—was an important
trans-medial element in his film titles of the time. Rules are quintessentially
paratextual.6 They share the surface of writing, and they share its graphic
materiality—particularly contrasting monochrome color. They manage
and marshal the spaces in which writing is set, but they are not writing
in the strict sense of symbolic representation. At one and the same time,
rules are also lines, lines that may shape themselves into abstract visual
representations. Rules problematize the surface of writing; they are both
writing and not writing both on the surface of writing and on a surface of
another dimension of writing. They bound and define the surface of writing,
and they may even, in certain contexts, as Bass showed, become the surface
of writing.
Titles for The Man with the Golden Arm demonstrate this perfectly
(Figure 6.1). A single heavy rule sweeps down to mark the director’s credit;
three more are propagated and, while introducing the names of the (three)
lead actors, suggest, to my eye, walking legs. Three of the four vanish, leaving
one upper rule, with the three now returning, sweeping in from the other
screen edges, to set out the superbly composed spaces of the film’s title. The
same rules go on to marshal and punctuate the remaining credits, suggesting
more visual forms and spaces, and also, I would argue, letter forms, before
finally and infamously combining to become the jagged silhouette of the
“golden arm” itself.
Rules in Bass’s work do not typically become letters, but they do interfere
with the surfaces of writing—sometimes making the switch from foreground
WRITING ON COMPLEX SURFACES 83
FIGURE 6.1 Still from the opening titles, designed by Saul Bass, for The Man with
the Golden Arm, directed by Otto Preminger, United Artists, 1955.
FIGURE 6.2 Still from the opening titles, designed by Saul Bass, for Anatomy of a
Murder, directed by Otto Preminger, Columbia Pictures, 1959.
FIGURE 6.3 Three stills from the opening titles, designed by Saul Bass, for North
by Northwest, directed by Alfred Hitchcock, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1959.
The ruled gridlines of North by Northwest and the complex surface they
literally delineate are faithful to graphics, typography, visuality, and textuality
all at once. As the sequence progresses this becomes clear. The words of
the title perform their function—we can simply read the credits—and they
give material pleasure in their design and movement. At a certain point the
grid moves away from abstraction and is filled in with the mirrored glass
windows of a modernist office block. It becomes real or rather more than
86 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
real because it is also a mirror, an inscribed surface that is also one particular
privileged representation of the world. We see people and traffic alive and
moving in the mirror-world and world of filmic naturalism. Meanwhile, the
title words continue to share this same surface. They are still well set and
respectful of typographic principles but now they share a surface of visual
representation that is simultaneously a real object (the building) in the (film)
world. It’s a tour de force. These titles embody an evolving continuum of
signifying strategies across media that could be performed only in time and
on a complex writing surface.
The potential emergence of the now-familiar screenic surface of
programmable media is prefigured in the titles for North by Northwest.8
Moreover, this prefiguration is unambiguously and necessarily complex,
contrasting with the actual historical development of computing’s screenic
writing surface, for which emulation of flatland paper became a misdirected
priority.
tend to recede from the surface of visibility. In the “floating” state they may
be algorithmically transformed so as to appear on the visible surface in an
alternate literal form, producing a quasi-legibility, a linguistic shimmering
on the screenic reading surface.
Translation deploys similar algorithms but introduces further
complexities, demonstrating the contention that the surface of writing may
be arbitrarily complex (Figure 6.5). In translation, the wave-patterns of
textual surfaces may be deformed by literal functions relating different texts
to one another, specifically texts in different languages. If a text floats or
sinks in one language, it may surface in another.
As they run and perform, pieces from the overboard and translation
series are what they appear to be—ever-changing, ambient manifestations
of writing on complex surfaces. Neither overboard nor translation can be
read or appreciated as flatland literary broadsheets.
distant objects in the Cave are rendered over the surfaces of closer objects in
terms of transparency/opacity. If letters were all rendered in the same surface
color with no lighting effects or without anti-aliasing or similar sophisticated
edge rendering techniques, then this “bug” would not necessarily have been
noticeable. However, even a smaller, conceptually more “distant” white
letter rendered “over” a larger, “closer” white letter will, in practice, be
visible because its edges are made visible by the graphics engine’s subtleties.
In the graphics “world” of the textual objects I developed for the Cave,
letters have no thickness, but they pivot in three dimensions so as always to
face the primary, tracked point of view (the Cave’s single dominant point
of view, associated with one privileged viewer within the Cave-space). If the
tracked reader is positioned at the edge of a plane of letters and she turns
to face the plane edge-on, the letters will all turn to face her. Their images
overlap, occlude one another—partially or wholly—and recede in view, since
the majority of them will be successively more or less distant. “Normally”
the surfaces of the larger closer letters would cover the more distant smaller
letters. However, because of the anomaly, smaller letter outlines may be
clearly discernable “within” but “over” the formed surfaces of the nearer
letters. Given these circumstances, and because, I believe, all the letter forms
are familiar—both visually and symbolically legible—and because we know
what their relative scale “should be,” this produces a striking and somewhat
bizarre visual illusion (Figure 6.6). We assume that even though the smaller
letters are rendered “over” the larger ones, they must be more distant (as
in fact they are in the conceptual topology). Thus, what we see is a very
deep and narrow corridor formed from letter shapes, with the most distant
smallest letters visible in completely edged outline, apparently farthest off,
as if inscribed on a tall, thin distant end of the corridor. Moreover, the reader
is able to move “into” the corridor formed by this plane of letter shapes.
This powerful perceptual experience is demonstrable and repeatable,
despite its artificiality and strangeness.13
This rendering anomaly was exploited and highlighted in a distinct study
piece called Lens. Versions have been made in the Cave—where the concepts
are more fully realized—and as also as a transactive QuickTime maquette.14
If different, contrasting colored letters are used for texts on distinct
surfaces, the rendering anomaly plays out differently. As expected, “distant”
letters will render over closer ones in the anomalous configuration. If the
distant letters in question are dark in color and the nearer letters light,
then, effectively, the surfaces of the nearer letters are transformed, by the
anomalous rendering, into surfaces of inscription for the distant letters. If
the overall background color is dark (black by default, as in the existing
Cave version and also the present QuickTime maquette), this has a further
effect relating to legibility and strategies of reading. Dark and distant letters
on a dark background are difficult to read. On a lighter background, they
may suddenly become legible. If the lighter background happens also to
WRITING ON COMPLEX SURFACES 91
FIGURE 6.6 Photograph from an immersive digital language art piece, taken in
the Brown University Cave, showing the anomalous “corridor” effect produced by
layered letters with disordered transparencies. Courtesy of the author.
FIGURE 6.7 Photograph from an immersive digital language art piece, taken in the
Brown University Cave, showing linguistically implicated layering effects. Courtesy
of the author.
In the Cave version of Lens, the effects are far more striking, disturbing,
and spectacular. The letters of Lens obey previously cited rules so that their
surfaces turn toward the tracked point of view, and the textual objects in the
piece are fully 3D as is the space itself. The lens text can be moved in relation
to the reader’s point of view, drawn close or sent out among the distant
darker texts, like an investigative spotlight. Most spectacularly, because of
the immersive characteristics of the Cave system, the literal surface of the
lens’s letters can be, as it were, moved so close as to touch or pass “behind”
the reader’s body and point of view. The surface light of a lens letter can
even be brought into the very eyes of the reader. When this happens, the
reader’s vision seems to be flooded with the white light of this literal surface
and the most spectacular spatial inversion/subversion occurs. The whiteness
becomes a 3D space. In fact, it becomes the enclosing 3D space of the Cave,
taking the place of the dark space previously inhabited by both reader and
the various textual objects only a moment before. The distant dark blue
texts still drift in this space, but now they do so, distinct and legible, in a
space of light and clarity. If the reader then moves the surface-literal lens-
light “out” of her eyes, the enclosing space, as suddenly, reverts to darkness.
WRITING ON COMPLEX SURFACES 93
It seems clear that this relatively simple system makes literal, in virtual
space, a particular type of complex surface that has spectacular perceptual
affect and a degree of rhetorical potential. As a proof of concept, it is
striking. In so far as it “works” it does so in terms of the complex, recursive
interrelations of writing surfaces and surfaces that are, literally, formed by
writing, at least in so far as the graphic surfaces of letters are “formed by
writing.” However, except in the sense of writing as graphic form, there is
no immediate or necessary determination of any symbolic content of writing
in Lens by its formal complexities of surface. The relationship between a
particular letter’s surface and the “distant” text it allows to be read is not
expressed as a linguistic or even a quasi-linguistic function. Contrast a typical
mesostic text or the texts of overboard and translation, where the shifting
states of complex reading and writing surfaces are determined by functions
applied to their constituent symbolic “contents.” Rather, Lens shares some
of the characteristics of surface complexity in Saul Bass’s cinematic titles.
The play of complex surfaces produces effects in the visual imaginary and
in our notions of the “real,” in the sense of the worlds we feel ourselves to
inhabit. In Saul Bass’s work the writing surface enters the imagined visual
world of film and shows that the surfaces of that world may be inscribed. In
the Cave, we can “really” dwell within the text. Its surface complexities may
suddenly determine where we are, how we see what we see, and what we
can or cannot read in a “world” that is literally made of text.
be more articulate about the distinctions we make between code and text.3
These distinctions are creatively challenged by codework that brings “inner
workings” to an “exterior,” especially when such work is manifested as a
generative cross-infection of text and code-as-text, of language and code-
as-language. In this earlier piece, I argued that “the code is not the text,
unless it is the text.” Code that is not the text, code that remains unbroken
and operative, may instantiate—as durational performance—the signifying
strategies of a text. As such, it does not appear on the complex surface of the
interface text as part of or as identical with it. There are, therefore, further
distinctions within codework, between those works that bring the traces of
an interior archive of code into the open, and those works that depend on
the continuing operation of code, where the code, in fact, reconceals itself
by generating a complex surface “over” itself. The present chapter addresses
these distinctions and then takes on questions concerning the characteristics
of a textuality whose very atoms of signification are programmed. What is
textuality where it is composed from programmed signifiers? In particular,
the temporal properties of such signifiers are highlighted, and the significance
of this temporality is examined.
“code” and “text” change during the shifting “now”—the distinct present
moments as I write and you read—and may well change radically over the
course of my intermittent writing/speaking and your intermittent reading/
hearing. The generation of altered and new meaning is, after all, one of my
explicit aims in addressing these terms.
It follows, even from this simple, on-the-fly phenomenology of language,
that atoms or instances of language (of whatever extent), though we treat
them as “things,” are, in fact, processes. If they are ever static or thing-
like, they are more like the “states” of a system, provisionally recognized
as identifiable, designated entities. In themselves they are, if anything, more
similar to programmed, procedural loops of significance and affect, isolated
for strategic or tactical reasons, be they rhetorical, aesthetic, social, or
political. This characterization is good linguistics and good critical thought.
However, usually our perception and appreciation of linguistic and critical
process are more broadly focused, bracketing the micro-processes that
generate and influence significance and affect in the “times” taken to move
from statement to statement, let alone those which pass so fleetingly and
function so invisibly in the move from letter to letter.
Moreover, as Hayles demonstrates in her recent critique of prevailing
notions of textuality, an abstracted conception of both “the text” (a physical
and literal manifestation of the ideal object of textual criticism, more or
less identified with an author’s intended work) and “text” (as a general
concept), is allied to the apparent stasis and persistence of print, and still
dominates our understanding of textuality in literary criticism.4 By contrast,
for Hayles all texts are embodied in specific media. In her view, electronic
texts represent a mode of embodiment through which literary works are
able to perform a realization of a latent materiality, and perhaps also the
revelation of such texts’ present and future informatic post-humanity, where
they “thrive on the entwining of physicality with informational structure.”5
Hayles sets out some of the elements of an electronic text and emphasizes
the dynamism of their symbolic relationships:
There are data files, programs that call and process the files, hardware
functionalities that interpret or compile the programs, and so on. It takes
all of these together to produce the electronic text. Omit any one of them,
and the text literally cannot be produced. For this reason, it would be
more accurate to call an electronic text a process rather than an object.6
Such a text, unlike that which has print for its medium, has no materially
accessible existence prior to its generation when displayed on the screen:
“electronic textuality … cannot be separated from the delivery vehicles that
produce it as a process with which the user can interact.”7
For an object to be identified as a process, at the very least, there must be
some way for its state to change over time, and perhaps also the possibility of
98 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
within it. Its implicit “code” evokes a widely used and well-understood
rhetorical and interpretative “program,” the program of paraphrase. In this
light, paraphrase can be seen as nothing other than the simplified (proper)
naming of procedural loops within more complex language that we so name
in order to be able to identify and atomize their procedures of meaning-
generation for the purpose of re-articulation. Any text where codes and
the codes of punctuation are integrated with the interface text, including
much of the codework of Mez and of Talan Memmott, can be unpacked and
analyzed in these terms, as inflected and driven by paratextual programming.
Hypertextual dissolutions
Spatially organized, navigable texts can often be understood in the same
way, where precisely the spatial organization and navigation is to be read
as paraphrase, gloss, elaboration, annotation, and so on, all coded into
operations that produce a successively revealed interface text. Making
reference to spatially organized, navigable textuality immediately evokes
hypertext. Indeed, hypertext does, for me, occupy a transitional or
intermediate position between the textuality of what I have called paratextual
programming exemplified in a postmodern punctuation of print text and a
textuality that is generated by programs or that is itself programmed. For
Philippe Bootz hypertext is simply the application of an operator to a literary
dataspace.22 In Bootz’s theory, “the Procedural Model,” the application of
a hypertext operator or class of operations to a proto-“hypertext” is what
generates nodes and links while, at the same time, coding those methods
and commands that enable what we call navigation into the hypertextual
structure. For Bootz, it is important to see that the hypertextual operator
is simply one of a virtually infinite number of such operators that might
be applied to the literary dataspace, the proto-hypertext that would in
fact become something quite other than hypertext if different operators
were applied. It is also noteworthy that the procedures and programming
of hypertext are relatively simple—the response to a set of documentary
problems rather than to poetic or, indeed, narrative ones.23 As famously
discussed on the relevant internet lists in the late 1990s, there seems to be
little content “inside” the links of traditional hypertext.24 Hypertext took
the spatialization of text beyond print media and brought the trope of
navigation to prominence, but the composed language of its constituent
nodes or lexia retained the print-like quality of having been impressed
on a surface—discoverable, visitable, but with little programmatological
“depth.” The classic hypertextual link does little other than provide the
instantaneous replacement of one composed fragment of integral text by
another. At times, this process is not appreciable, even metaphorically, as
a spatial displacement. How is the replacement of text on the surface of a
104 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
FIGURE 7.1 Screenshot from The Barrier Frames. Courtesy of Jim Rosenberg.
Rosenberg’s work resists these reductions in the most obvious and effective
way. When his work is space, it is not readable, and it has no emergent,
repeatable linearity. Only within restructured time can it be read. Moreover,
even less than in the case of hypertext can it be reduced to linearity. Without
being indeterminate (Rosenberg’s texts are not generated by quasi-random
processes), these texts are nonetheless constructed in a manner that makes
it next to impossible for writer or reader to anticipate or control the mouse
or pointer’s positions when addressing the work in a way that would allow,
for example, the repeated performance of particular sequences of textual
revelations. It would be impossible, that is, without learning to manipulate
one of his works like a musical instrument, gaining the necessary control and
skill to know which “notes” to strike and when. The point is: the reading, or
recital, of one of Rosenberg’s texts obliges its readers to address the inherent
restructuring of time, specifically the time of reading. Rosenberg’s coding
of programmable media for literal art guarantees this specific aspect of his
text’s materiality and also, perhaps even more importantly, gives both writer
and reader access to the manipulation of this dimension of literal textual
matter.28
In Rosenberg’s work the coding is in the system, but it is also within,
and a part of, the writing because of the way the text must be read, because
of the simple fact that the only way to read is by working with the text,
manipulating it with a programmaton’s pointing device. Rosenberg has
recast reading and has changed the properties and methods of the signifier.
He instantiates a signifier that has radically different properties to that of
print culture. One way of figuring this difference is to extend an analogy
with object-oriented programming and say that Rosenberg has extended the
class “Text” and overridden its “read” and “write” methods. In Rosenberg,
writing is (among other things) a method of layering, overlaying, and
compositing texts, and reading is (among other things) a tentative work of
revealing the clustered layers in order to pass the literal data they contain
on to the “read” method of an underlying or parallel Text object of the
“parent” class, the Text object of print culture.29
While we want to emphasize the fact that the signifier is a temporal,
durational object, we also have to consider that literal and literary time
is itself restructured by textuality. Textuality is temporal and as such
restructures the culture of human time. That textuality was always temporal
is clear. We are familiar with the textual generation of linear and narrative
time. We are familiar with writing as deferral, especially as a function of
its spatiality, its translation of time into space. We are comfortable with
the figures and tricks of narrative reordering—flashback and the like—
although chiefly in the frameworks of historical time and narrative drive.30
However, textuality as instantiated in programmable media realizes the
potential for a more radical restructuring of the culture of human time, and
Rosenberg’s literal art provides an instance of how this happens through
108 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
the absolute necessity to work with it, in time, in order to read.31 It is, in
this sense, a (if not “the”) type of “ergodic literature,” where non-trivial
effort is necessary for reading.32 However, as Espen Aarseth shows with his
provisional “textonomy,” time enters into the art of letters and is restructured
through many other rhetorical methods and procedures, not only through
ergodic manipulation, but also—giving a far from exhaustive list—through
animation, text generation, quasi- and pseudo-random modulation, and
various combinations of all of these, not to mention the kind of live textual
collaboration that networked programmable media allow.
and methods of its Xanadu system—is not only “the original (perhaps the
ultimate) HYPERTEXT SYSTEM”36 but also the final instantiation of the
textual materiality of authorized editions, of the ideal, abstracted, persistent,
authorized text that is currently the dominant object of attention in both
literary and academic discourse.
For Nelson “a document is really (Figure 7.4 appears here in his text)
an evolving ONGOING BRAID.”37 This definition accords perfectly with a
materiality of text for which structured durations of time are necessary to
its strategies of signification. Nelson’s system also specifies and provides a
way to view text in various successive states that arise during the spiraling,
branching process of composition, “instantaneous slices” captured from the
evolving braid as “versions” of the text or some part of the text. For Nelson,
a text very much has a history as well as a synchronous existence, and his
rendition of hypertext aims to represent this chronological dimension and
to do so well. However, his nodes are time-stamped not time-based, as in the
phrase “time-based art.” The docuverse captures states of the looping and
spiraling braids of textuality, but not the looping and spiraling itself. In later
versions of the docuverse these nodes are conceived of as the “spans” of a
“permascroll.”38 The totalizing and ultimate instantiation of a Nelsonian
docuverse is a representation of the permascroll.
The permascroll is another important point of view from which to
examine the Nelsonian docuverse. It is the linear and literal representation
of every textual event. It is all writing, everything written, everything
inscribed as language, as and when it was so inscribed. Hypertext can then
be generated from the permascroll through operations that display linked
windows onto spans of the scroll. Textual history and textual criticism can
be recast as a vast but particular and privileged set of pointers to those spans
on the permascroll representing various textual events that are—culturally,
institutionally—significant for the archive and interpretation of a writing
FIGURE 7.4 Illustration from Literary Machines 93.1, p. 2/14. Courtesy of Ted
Nelson.
110 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
language, in terms of how we may live with and within a particular aesthetic
practice. We live in architecture without departing from a world in which
we live. We live in (aesthetic) language only in so far as we leave the world
in which the language is embodied.2 If this is the case, then it has always
been the case, and I believe that poetry and poetic practice has been one
of the sites of greatest awareness of the phenomena associated with these
relations—perhaps, paradoxically, precisely because of its long-standing
attention to form and presentation—both traditional form such as rhythmic
structure, and rhyme and experimental, innovative, indeed, disjunctive
form—as a function of materiality—which term I take to refer to media in
the broadest possible sense. However, as poetry moves “beyond text” we are
re-confronted with the problem of giving a home to the other-worldly in the
new media-constituted diegetic worlds within which, all-too-suddenly, we
find ourselves living, albeit, to some extent, artificially.3 Because language
has been constrained to the mind, the voice, and latterly to the “surface
of the leaf,” we have internalized its being-in-all-possible-worlds as such.
When it appears in “new media” we are re-sensitized to the experience of its
never-having-belonged-here.
glasses are worn by the Cave user and these glasses synchronize with the
otherwise imperceptibly alternating left-eye, right-eye images, filtering the
corresponding projections into the corresponding eye in order to achieve
a simulation of stereo vision. The (two times) four wall-projected images
are generated, and, as necessary, corrected—in terms of perspective and the
deformations required to compensate for the flat projection surfaces of a
cube-shaped room—in order to provide a coherent graphic “world” for one
particular pair of glasses-wearing human eyes, whose position in the artificial
space is tracked such that the system can respond to its movement through
the “world” in “real time” (or rather in the “time” of the graphic world).
This brief description of the Cave introduces the specific visual world within
which we write, and into which we are asked to bring literal art, literary
aesthetics (Figure 8.1). We are, in this artificial visual space, writing digital
media, and our focus will be on the way that language appears in this visual
world and how it functions.
When we write for the Cave, we write—bracketing any audio component
within the scope of the present arguments—for a world of images. As we
FIGURE 8.1 Photographs taken during a showing of Glitch, 2008, by Jason Lee,
Ben Nicholson, and Jinaabah Showa: writing for the Cave immersive 3D audiovisual
environment, Brown University, Center for Computation and Visualization.
Photographs courtesy of Francisco J. Ricardo.
118 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
(typically and for the type of painting that concerns us here in solely visual
material), but they may also be or become linguistic or symbolic in one of at
least two ways: by way of special cases—as in much of Magritte’s work—
where language is inscribed or represented, but also, arguably, in terms of
the very “pictorial turn” posited by Mitchell, by means of which practices
of visuality are so prevalent and articulated in the culture that they literalize
this articulation and “speak” with the clarity and force of conventional
linguistic discourse.12
It is more difficult to consider writing as media in an analogous sense. To
unravel certain aspects of this difficulty is precisely our aim, and so to make
any direct attempt now would risk tightening the knot we are attempting to
loosen and describe. Suffice it to say that the material supports for writing
are severely constrained in the worlds of human material culture—graphic
inscription, oral practices, articulate thought. Whereas, for example, the
diverse materialities of the media available to visual representation are
commensurate with those of the visual world—infinite means to represent
infinite images—the infinite subjects of linguistic representation obviously
and infinitely exceed the materialities of the constrained media which bear
this world-making language.
New digital media are not just to be considered as media; they are
media. The existence of media that are able to represent other media or to
represent artifacts that were made in a traditional medium as (new) media
(remediation) is, in a sense, the phenomenon that allows us to see older
conventional media as such; to see that painting, for example, is media,
not just a medium. Subsequently, we struggle to distinguish, materially and
critically, between conventional media(tion) and any corresponding new
(re)media(tion): the painting and its digitization, as a specific exemplary
instance. In the case of literary art, as indicated above, such struggles are,
typically, futile. It is pointless to insist on a materially significant difference
between these words as they might appear to you on paper and as they
might appear to you on screen.13 Thus, whenever we do consider differences
in writing and mediated writing to be critically or materially significant,
we tend to speak of writing in new digital media, as if writing were not
undergoing remediation, but as if it were being newly mediated by removal
from an unmediated condition and translation into media.
I am going to write about René Magritte’s famous painting, La trahison
des images, 1929 (The Treachery of Images, or simply (The) Treachery) in
what follows. Some of my remarks may not seem to display a comprehensive
sense of the art historical and art philosophical context in which this much-
discussed work has been situated. In part this is a matter of my professional
experience and inclination, but it is chiefly the result of my treating this
painting as a specific instance of media device within the overall media-
constituted world of painting. Certain properties and methods of this
device manifest remarkable correspondences with those of the Cave, to an
122 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
instance, that is, of new, breaking media within which we also write and
produce images. To extend the analogy from object-oriented programming,
Magritte’s painting and the Cave may both be seen to be derived from an
abstract “class” of media devices.
The Treachery is an oil painting, unambiguously a work of visual art,
although one that directly addresses the relationship between image and
word. As a media device, it is indeed unambiguous; it belongs in the world
of the visual. Apart from its evident materiality as an oil painting on canvas,
the work will be viewed in an art museum, itself an architecturally (spatially/
visually) constituted world where painting and other fine art are typically
displayed. Setting to one side for the moment the products of such groups
as Art & Language or conceptual work (and all the discussion here), we
don’t go to a gallery to read (a book) or smoke (a pipe). As you look around
the museum—the painting is now in the Los Angeles County Museum of
Art—you will see it hung within a visually coherent world where it will not
be out of place. Granted, it is a metapicture and it does, as we will reaffirm,
disrupt diegesis, but not in its material form as an aspect of the media
system of painting set within the visual/architectural media of the museum’s
gallery space. You don’t look around the gallery and say to yourself,
“That is not a painting. That is language, commentary, metastatement,
graffiti, an acousmatic stain.” Moreover, in terms of the first instance of
critical response, the artist’s own, we have the painting’s title, La trahison
des images (the treachery of images), not, notably, “la trahison des mots,”
not “the treachery of language.” The title sums up an inclination of critical
response to the painting as it is exemplified both by Foucault’s essay and
by Mitchell’s commentary. For both these commentators—despite the fact
that their primary interest is the pursuit of language, discourse, the way that
statements are made—this strange, simple, and strangely simple assemblage
of graphic elements, including language, is still, obviously, a picture.14
Nonetheless, Magritte’s Treachery does include, depict, address, and
concern language. More than this, the painting is also, at least in part,
writing. Perhaps, in fact, the work is writing? Initially, it is very easy and
natural for us to say that, for example, the line of text—“Ceci n’est pas
une pipe”—at the bottom of the painting is writing in visual media, writing
within the media of painting. Why isn’t it writing itself? Why couldn’t
we claim, for example, that the painting is dominated by this address to
language and by its own actual instance of writing and that therefore, as a
whole, it is writing, predominantly or in terms of a “deeper” interpretative
or semiological reading, it is writing as media, and that, in fact, the image
content of the picture is in written media, it is, in fact, imagery within the
media of writing?
Of course, Magritte willfully, pointedly, if perhaps unconsciously, sets
up this flip-flop, apparently symmetrical structure of complementary
interpretations. In fact, he’s already answered the question and so have
THE GRAVITY OF THE LEAF 123
we. He painted the picture and we either see it in an art museum or see
it reproduced as a painting that exists as such in the museum. Magritte’s
paintings are, very definitely, in a particular register, one that is not the
usual register of painting, not even the usual register of surrealist painting
if you think, for example, of Max Ernst or even of the de Chirico that
Magritte revered. Neither Ernst nor de Chirico can be as immediately
“read,” catastrophically, in linguistic terms, the way we read Magritte.
I believe, for instance, that Magritte’s painting can be seen as the visual
complement of concrete poetry, where my definition of concrete poetry is
not simply an aesthetic linguistic work the specifics of whose visual (or
non-linguistic) manifestation are significant and affective (that would be
true of all writing in so far as it is represented graphically), but a linguistic
work that engages materially with the rhetoric and aesthetics of the visual
world and/or the world of (concrete) objects. Concrete poetry is language
rendered in such a way as to appear as visual images or to behave like
objects and, in a complementary manner, Magritte’s paintings are images
and objects rendered in such a way as to perform language acts or to appear
to be language. Both practices, arguably, are culturally marginal, minority
practices; exemplary perhaps, but neither typical nor central. The point I
want to make here is that the apparent symmetry of the implied relationship
between language and media is an illusion. Both Magritte’s writing in
the media of painting and the kind of writing in new digital media that
underlies our own inquiry, ultimately, help us see this, and do this in part,
I believe, by the very fact of spanning all the intervening critical, linguistic,
and artistic exploration and practice which has continually addressed the
same or related problematics.
In a sense, I am recasting and reworking the kind of semiological analyses
of image and text that was undertaken by Roland Barthes and implicit in
both Foucault and Mitchell.15 Here I will, through Barthes, anchor my use of
the elaborate term “media-constituted diegetic world” before applying such
thinking first to Magritte’s Treachery and then to writing in immersive 3D
graphics, to writing in new digital media. In the two essays that most concern
me and which open Stephen Heath’s translated selection Image Music Text,
Barthes is mainly concerned with photography, “a continuous message,” as
he says, or “a message without a code.”16 Barthes understands as well as
anyone that “the image—grasped immediately by an inner metalanguage,
language itself—in actual fact has no denoted state, is immersed for its
very social existence in at least an initial layer of connotation, that of the
categories of language.”17 Nonetheless, for him, photography has a special
relation to the world which he describes as being “continuous,” syntagmatic
with the world of (natural, phenomenological, human) experience.18
Photographs are both (actually and virtually) in our world, and appear to
be (in a special, privileged sense) contiguous with its constitutive objects.
For Barthes (one thinks also of Benjamin), “the photograph is not the last
124 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
creator” and “the society receiving the message.” Barthes would acquire
a way of handling photography as a function of media specificity, his
exceptional and highly valuable insights accessible—largely unchanged
in their tenor—because there is a new device in the world, the properties
and methods of which have new syntagmatic relationships with the world,
allowing a media-constituted diegesis to arise. Barthes reminds me that all
media are intimate with rhetoric, style being a word from its discourse that
encapsulates shared connotations of cultural practices undertaken by both
actual makers and others within those institutions to which they address
their poiesis.
Diegesis here is used in a manner that is related to the way it is used in
narrative and film theory, but the usage is extended to refer to worlds of
cultural practices, “diegetic worlds” within which syntagmatic “flows” can
occur.24 I say that these diegetic worlds are “media-constituted,” which, as
outlined above, implies that they are a combination of technology, device,
prosthesis on the one hand and what I’m content to call “style” on the
other. As a serviceable sketch of what I mean by style, I am also content
with Barthes’s far from exhaustive but suggestive listing: “schemes, colors,
graphisms, gestures, expressions, arrangements of elements.”25 When
technology and style work together as media, they create a diegetic world.
Note that media-constituted diegetic worlds may be in any number
of relationships, bordering one another, intersected, overlaid, and so on.
Because, as media, they are themselves constituted by both technology
and style; either of these medial aspects may provide points or areas of
contiguity between such diegetic worlds. Photography can be considered
as media constituting a diegetic world. Barthes, recast in these terms,
believed (at least for the purpose of critical thinking) that the world of
photography was continuous—syntagmatically connected—with nature as
envisioned by humans. This was, and is a, function of both technology and
style: photography’s recording technology—capturing a moment of two-
dimensionally spatialized light—and a style of optical representation that is
still, currently, accepted as “naturalism,” even though this manner of vision
is quite distinct from how we see. Whether or not we reject any notion of
an essential—permanent, non-contingent—contiguity between the media-
constituted diegesis of photography and the diegesis of human culture/
nature (which I take to be a manifold of all existing media-constituted
diegetic worlds), nonetheless, the properties and methods of photography
relate to the world in a media-specific manner that support most, if not all,
of the interpretative insights that Barthes draws from his analysis.
What happens when a photographic image is altered, as in many of
John Baldessari’s works?26 I am thinking in particular of later series and
pieces, from the 1980s onward where, often, the faces of human and
occasionally animal figures are obscured by bright, flat monochromatic
circular shapes.27 Viewing and reading such composite images we
126 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
There is indeed a relatively thin strip between words and image in The
Treachery and also between the typical layout of image and caption.
However, in the painting, it is, visibly, not really a “strip” at all—it is a part
of the background that is no place, and, for all we know, infinite. Actually,
circumstances are the same for any image and caption. The so-called white
“strip” is simply one of the many places the infinite (no) surface of “leaf”
shows through—the (third) dimension-less leaf, the no thing, no place, no
where, with its strong gravity proper to language. It is also, as it happens,
the no space of the Cave.
What happens if we translate the objects in the painting to the Cave?
Arguably this is not a remediation. The pipe and its “caption” are already in
the very no space that the Cave simply actualizes as an immersive illusion.
But follow me in this thought experiment.37 We are standing within the
Cave, its four projective surfaces in front, to the left and right, and beneath
our point of view. The no-color of The Treachery’s background has been
projected on to these surfaces and we ignore or no longer see those places
where the walls meet. The walls have disappeared for us and we are in,
or rather, immersively before the surface of Magritte’s painting. The pipe
and the inscription fade into view before our eyes, seemingly at the same
distance from us as they would appear to be if we were comfortably viewing
the painting in a gallery, although we see no frame. (The “frame” is beyond
our field of vision, around the edges of the device, which we are inside.)
THE GRAVITY OF THE LEAF 129
those backgrounds of graphic worlds that are surfaces but are equally
third-dimensionless no things, no where, in and of no place or space. The
no surface in Magritte’s painting draws the image and the (image of) the
inscription toward itself with qualitatively differing strengths of cultural
gravity and we can see this in the graphic representation. We see that the
pipe hangs suspended in relation to the no surface, held by its gravity but
not touching or fixed to it in terms of its media-constituted diegetic world,
that of figurative painting. The position of the inscription, on the other
hand, is radically ambiguous and contradictory: either its position is the
same as that of the image or else it is not only held by the gravity of the no
surface—the no thing no place no where—it is on that surface, co-defining it
as such while deriving from it all of its own existence as inscription, precisely
as linguistic-marks-on-a-surface, and thus become inseparable from it, in
the very condition of linguistic inscription. For writing, the gravity of the
leaf is the Strong Force itself. Either point of view leads to paradox. If the
inscription hangs suspended, then it belongs to no coherent diegetic world
of which we know, one where a pipe may also appear to be suspended in
space. Handwriting cannot be suspended in space without a surface for it
to be on. If, rather, the inscription is considered to be on the background
surface, then it has gravitated to the no thing, no where, in and of no space,
and so it is diegetically broken away from the media-constituted world of
the pipe’s image.
Of course, these contradictions arise because Magritte has, as I suggested
before, made an untypical painting, one that behaves like language—a visual
complement of concrete poetry. The “pipe” is able to appear like a word in
the lexical order, and so it is also not a pipe in the same way that the word
“pipe” is not a pipe. It does this very clearly and directly by, unusually,
establishing the same sort of—radically ambiguous and contradictory—
relation to the surface, to the gravity of the leaf, that is typical for words,
for inscription. It does this by playing with the media-constituted world of
painting, by depicting a paradox in that world, by graphically illustrating
a diegetic break, the break that we see between the pipe and the surface
against which it is suspended in no world that could ever exist. It cannot be
a pipe. The difference is that the pipe looks like a pipe and the painting does
have a coherence that is established within the media-constituted diegetic
world of figurative painting. The pipe can be in that painted world and,
without any change in point of view, it can appear to be in our own visual
world, the one where paintings exist in galleries and where other pipes can
be held in our hands and before our eyes and compared with the painted
image. The inscription can’t. It’s either stuck on the surface of the painting’s
background, or it’s in a no place where it couldn’t otherwise exist. Even
when made manifest in the artificial world of the Cave, it can only display
a broken relationship to any world. It does have relationships with media-
constituted worlds, but these are severely, catastrophically constrained.
132 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
One
In order to begin to write this chapter, I set out to make some appropriate
use of what I have come to think of as “writing to be found.” Originally
I had thought that this would be by way of simply beginning to write,
embarking on my usual process of writing while checking, periodically, to
see whether the sequences of words that I was in the midst of composing
were still “found” in the corpus and then at what point they became “not yet
found.”1 How many words would I have to add, composing my syntagmatic
sequences, before they were not found in the corpus of language to which
the Google search engine gives me access, before they were, perhaps, original
sequences? How difficult would I find it to produce unfound sequences?
Would I be able to continue to write as I usually write once I was aware
that, at some perhaps unanticipated moment, the words I write are suddenly
penetrating and constituting the domain of sequences that are not yet found
in our largest, most accessible corpus of written English?
There have proven to be many questions raised by any and all of my
attempts to engage with these processes and their contexts. Moreover,
I remain convinced that many of these processes may be productive of
significance and affect, to an extent that will allow aesthetic, not only
critical, practices some purchase.
This way of working with language is enabled by unprecedented,
convenient, and articulable access to the network, a world of language, a
media-constituted diegesis, that is still “powered”—as the contemporary
technologically inflected usage would have it—by text, by encoded
representations of inscription, in what we usually call writing. The net is still
largely composed from all the privileged instantiations of our languages’
singular materialities that we, as irrepressible language-makers, have so far
written to be found.
134 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
By which I mean, to make it clearer, that when I write with these processes,
I’m both writing, and writing with Google.2 Is Google my collaborator?
Does Google become the space within which I write? I want to make it
clear that I don’t consider myself necessarily to be writing in the space of
the network nor collaborating (directly) with other artists. At this point, I
also want to make it clear that I do not consider myself to be using Google,
not, at least, in the usual way that Google is used for gathering instances
of language by search. I’m not refashioning myself as a Flarfist.3 I’m not
casting a faux-puerile, post-everything, absurdist net over the net using the
net, gathering glittering detritus, spectacular disjuncture, in endless anti-
syntactic listlings. I’m not composing searches in order to find the language
for what I’m making. I’ve got my language already, one way or another. I
just want to know whether it’s found or it isn’t. The Flarf-poetic approach
is—although this is only a small part of Flarf—a détournement of the
affordances that Google offers us as a portal to text on the network. My
“writing to be found,” on the other hand, is in itself a way of writing that
is shaped by the way that Google is shaped, by the way in which Google
curves the space of the network. And Google does also, in a sense, write
with me: constraining, directing, guiding, and, especially, punctuating my
writing.
It occurs to me, broadening the scope of these experiments’ relevance,
that poetic writing for programmable and network media seems to have
been captivated by the affordances of new media and questions of whether
or not and if so, how certain novel, advanced, media-constituted properties
and methods of literary objects require us to reassess and reconfigure
the literary itself. What if we shift our attention decidedly to practices,
processes, procedures—toward ways of writing and ways of reading rather
than dwelling on either textual artifacts themselves (even when considered
as time-based literary objects) or the concepts underpinning such objects
as artifacts? What else can we do, given that we must now write on, for,
and with the net which is itself no object but a seething mass of manifold
processes? Google itself signals the significance of process since Google both
is and is not the net. Google is not the inscription that forms the matter of
the net. Google is merely (almost) everyprocess (not everything) that makes
it possible for us to find and touch and consume what was always already
there in front of us.
When you collaborate, you are more or less obliged to get to know
your collaborator. Getting to know Google better, in a practical sense,
as a collaborator, is one of the most interesting results to emerge from
even the relatively simple and preliminary processes that have been set
in train.
This is probably the moment to introduce some details of the procedures
with which I am writing. First, a classical epithet via Montaigne in John
Florio’s translation,
WRITING TO BE FOUND AND WRITING READERS 135
Process: Write into the Google search field with text delimited by quote
marks until the sequence of words is not found. Record this sequence. Delete
words from the beginning of the sequence until the sequence is found. Then
add more words to the end of the sequence until it is not found. Repeat. Each
line of the resultant text (although not necessarily the last line) will comprise
a sequence of words that is “not yet found.” At the time of composition,
these lineated sequences of words had not yet been indexed by Google and
were thus, in a certain (formal) sense, original:
If I write, quoting,
I write, quoting, “And”
write, quoting, “And the”
quoting, “And the earth”
“And the earth was without form and void; and darkness was upon
the face of the deep,” these words
“upon the face of the deep,” these words will
“deep,” these words will be found
these words will be found. Perhaps
will be found. Perhaps they will now
Perhaps they will now always
they will now always be found
will now always be found. I
always be found. I write
be found. I write, in part
I write, in part, in the hope that what
in the hope that what I write will be found.
[with Google, Saturday October 3, 2009, completed 2:04am EST.]
engines when what we are looking for is not yet found, when it could still
be anything, because, as yet, it is nothing to the corpus. It isn’t there. It
isn’t in any way predictable. It’s still maximal, raw information in Shannon-
Weaver’s sense—the edge of chaos that we are about to make, literally,
readable.
Since I have some practical experience with Markov models for text
generation, I also pretend to recognize this as a closely related phenomenon.7
If we think of Google as giving us access to a vast Markov model, I believe
I am right in saying that as I build up my sequences of words delimited by
quotes and test them after adding each word, I am testing the model’s ability
to be able to find me an n-gram where n is equal to the number of words
in my sequence. Non-zero results mean that there are probabilities to play
with. Not only is it the case that other people before me have produced
instances of this sequence of words, but an n-gram model, constructed from
the Google corpus, would also have some chance of generating my search
phrase. However, once I’ve reached an unfound sequence, the model breaks
down. I’m at the edge, and I may also, perhaps, be about to extend, by
some minuscule amount, the readable, the unchaotic territory of the textual,
perhaps even that of the literary. I’m about to write, and to add my own
writing to the corpus.
And then suddenly it gets interesting. I was just writing, and now I’m
writing with Google and beginning to wonder what that means. Google
is where we search for language and for forms of all kind that are made
from language, including aesthetic forms. It’s become our default portal to
the default corpus. It is not yet all writing, but we feel that we are close
to the historical moment when the extraordinary possibility—Ted Nelson’s
docuverse—has become an actuality for, at least, a major portion of the
existing textual corpus of writing in English. Already, I wager, we type our
searches into Google expecting that it will find anything and everything
that we might expect to be found in the world of letters, of conventionally
inscribed textuality. What do I mean by that? I mean at least all of those
sequences of words that have been written by authors who are known to us.
All of the writing that is known, all of the writing that will have been found.
And much besides.
The two singularly lineated sentences above are made with a slightly
different process, a retreat from the not yet found sequence—at the time
this was, for example, “The purpose of this writing is to address an”—to
the longest sequence that was still found in the accessible Google corpus.
Although the sentences are original to me, they are expressed in phrases
that can be shown to be plagiarized from the corpus. They have all already
been written.
For we do seem to be addressing something like the palpable, objective
edge of authorial originality. “The purpose of this writing is to address”
was always unoriginal before I set out. When I wrote, “The purpose of this
writing is to address an,” the indefinite article made me an author.
Those of us who are educators will be aware of the way that Google and
other search engines are used as simple detectors of student plagiarism. Type
the suspected sentence into Google and it is very likely to find the source
from which it may have been copied. Writing to be found with Google
reveals, however, the singular, perhaps unprecedented nature of its, Google’s,
co-authorial authority. By definition Google changes shape. As we’ve said
before, it’s a process. By providing access Google seems to be the corpus of
reference while remaining a protean manifold of processes that continually
reconfigure themselves while crawling over our networked body of language
(the actual corpus), even unto the edge of chaos, finding new readable things
and indexing them relentlessly and swiftly, remarkably swiftly. Less than
three hours after I’d posted my not-yet-found texts to the netpoetics blog,
they were suddenly found. Thus, taking the same text and putting it through
the same procedure produced an entirely different text and a new measure
(or textual visualization) of my originality.
Returning to my first process, with the supply text just quoted, for
example:
a little over two hours later at 11:30 on the same day. (By the way,
although the second iteration of the process reduces the number of unfound
sequences in this initial extract; for the entire supply text, the second iteration
actually increased the total number of unfound sequences from 17 to 21.)
This potential for iteration was not only expected, but it was something
with which I desired to experiment, using it to produce a series of texts,
138 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
Two
Why hadn’t I considered this before? Why don’t we think of it now, and
then more often? As a culture, we are in the seemingly ineluctable process
of handing over the digitization and indexing of our entire surviving
published textual legacy to Google, in order for them to include that part
of it which they have not already indexed. I, we, have no idea how they are
going to index our literature or how their indexing of it might change over
time. On the other hand, there is considerable evidence of uncertainty and
inconsistency.8
I should of course mention in passing that there are already and will likely
remain some checks and balances to Google. So far, the other internet search
engines have access to most of the same corpus, and they do not index this
corpus in the same way.9 Without huge investment we could all write and
set up our very own search engines. Nonetheless it is remarkable the degree
to which Google has become, as I say, initially the search engine of reference
and now in some sense the reference of reference. This is so obvious to us
that it has become banal to point out that whatever else Google is, it may
be the most remarkable and significant agency for cultural change on the
planet.
Of course, the scholars among us (and within us) will defer. We cannot
rely on anything that the folksonomic internet provides, although relying,
admittedly “by default,” is exactly what all of us having access actually do.
Neither can we defer from Google in the same way that we defer from
Wikipedia, on the basis of what it “contains.” Google is not Wikipedia and, in
a sense, it does not contain anything. Practically and in other critical senses,
it stands between us and Wikipedia while also providing—in so far as it
WRITING TO BE FOUND AND WRITING READERS 139
indexes all the writing that can be found—much of the material from which
Wikipedia is built. Wikipedia is something that arose contemporaneously
with the Googlization of everything but is more a symptom than a cause.
Whatever Google is, it is a problem that remains to be addressed, and
written with.
Here is one brief working statement of what Google is becoming or what
it may already be: Google is the preferred or default agency to which our
existing institutions of cultural production and critique delegate the symbolic
processing of our inscribed material culture in exchange for unprecedented
access to the results of that symbolic processing. I am, of course, bracketing
all the important questions concerning what exactly is handed over to
Google for processing, how is this done, who owns it, and where it is—all
of which are irreversibly complicated by the fact that any answers will be
radically different “before” and “after” these processes that were already in
train long “before” any actual exchanges—such as agreements to digitize
libraries—were made explicit, let alone regulated in any publicly agreed and
articulated manner.
Let’s say it again in more polemical terms. We hand over our culture to
Google in exchange for unprecedented and free access to that culture. We
do this all but unconscious of the fact that it will be Google that defines
what “unprecedented” and “free” ultimately imply.10 As yet, we hardly
seem to acknowledge the fact that this agreement means that it is Google
that reflects our culture back to us. They design the mirror, the device,
the dispositive, as the French would put it. They offer a promise of “free”
access in many senses of that word, including zero cost to the end-using
inquirer and close to zero cost to the institutions that supply the inscribed
material culture that Google swallows and digests. But Google does not
(some might here add “any longer”) conceal the fact that this free access
does come at a cost, another type of cost, one that is also a culture-(in)
forming cost: Google will process all (or nearly all) this data in order to sell
a “highly cultivated” positioning of advertisements. The deal can’t go ahead
without this underlying engine of commerce and commercialization. In a
sense, Google is the predominant global corporation, a major proportion
of whose capital is literally cultural capital. Now, what was already a huge
backing investment is being freely augmented by the traditional investors
in this market of culture, the universities in particular. Bizarrely, these
institutional investors are not asking for shares in the business, or rights to
vote on the board. All they seem to want is to have what they already had,
but processed, indexed, reformed, and reflected back to them, to us, in, as I
say, a manner that allows many of us unprecedented access.
This is not, primarily, a chapter about Google, and the situation was and
is far more complicated than this polemical outline suggests. Google did,
after all, emerge from the popular culture that was born on the internet itself,
long (in net history terms) before institutions began to contribute to this
140 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
culture to any significant extent. Thus the initial cultural capital that Google
amassed may be seen as fairly won, and the access that Google provided
to a suddenly vast, ever-accumulating resource was truly unprecedented,
rendering the culture of the net useable, manageable, findable, beyond all
expectation.11 We learned quickly that “unprecedented access” meant that
Google was better than any other agency at managing the “more than ever
before” of everything that is digitally inscribed, the exponential increase in
information. But now this simple, if overwhelming, quantitative fact is all
that we and our institutions know with any surety. We know that Google
will deal with the scale of it all, and manage it all better, and give more of
it back to us,12 but we may never know, unless we ask or demand, exactly
how they do this or how they will or will not do this in some speculative
future when they have already disposed of the problems of processing it
all, displacing it all, continually rendering it back to us through manifold
devices with post-human artificial intelligences.13
Three
So now all my writing to be found has been recast in the light of this shared,
would-be universal engagement or struggle with Google to retrieve or
reform culture. And immediately, as in the work of writing digital media that
underlies these remarks, I return to specifics with a heightened awareness of
their potential significance, especially as critique of these relations.
For example, in the course of investigating writing to be found, it
occurred to me that any material that is quoted in a text from a well-known,
and therefore much indexed, source will emerge very differently in the
procedures outlined above. It seems that in what may be standard original
composition, you can expect sequences of words that you are writing to be
found to be unique after about five words, depending on diction. However,
arbitrarily long sequences of words recalled or quoted from many texts, like
the English Bible in one of the standard translations, will already and will
always be found by Google. The conceptualist in you might want to test
this to some absurd aesthetic extreme, typing all of Genesis into the Google
search box delimited by quotes and discovering thousands of hits. I didn’t
get this far, although I made attempts with lengthy sequences until I noticed,
in light grey type, the legend14:
I hadn’t noticed or been aware of this limitation before. And I am still unsure
about when and how it was instituted. How long had this been a Google
WRITING TO BE FOUND AND WRITING READERS 141
limitation? Who decided it was needed and why? Why thirty-two words?
It’s clearly not surprising that this limitation exists. The point here is that
it gets in the way of using or, in my case, writing with Google in the way I
believed would be interesting and might lead to further aesthetic or critical
cultural production. What if I wanted to continue with what I had hoped
and planned to do? Google’s got indexes to my language, my culture. Even if
they might not reasonably be expected to give me all the tools I might need
or want to explore this material, why should they constrain or reform the
tools that they do appear to give me in ways that seem to me to be arbitrary
or, at least, unrelated to my own concerns? These questions are already
important but not as important as they will become. When Google indexes
all books, which institutions will keep track of when and why they change
their search algorithms, let alone endeavor to influence Google’s decisions
in such matters?15
Never mind, for my immediate purposes at least. Conceptually, I
can imagine what the search results would have been for absurdly long
sequences from famous texts and how, using writing to be found procedures
for lineation, texts that quoted or plagiarized such material (let’s say,
writing to be found punctuating certain texts of Kathy Acker or Pierre
Menard’s Quixote or Kent Johnson’s Day),16 would be chopped up where
they are “original” and then bulge out where they incorporated what is
already found, as the “If I write, quoting … ” example above demonstrates.
(Menard’s Quixote would be all “bulge.”)
I say “never mind,” but remain disturbed. A productive engagement had
been interrupted by a (ro)bot from Porlock and now this seems as if it will
be characteristic of writing and working with Google, re-energizing the
Anglo-Saxon origins of that preposition. In fact, of course, it is a function
of encoded properties and methods that are designed to reassert, where and
whenever necessary, the underlying purposes of the Google engine, which
is, as we recall, to dispose of culture and propose advertisements based
on this disposal. Google asserts: “You don’t need more than 32 words in
your queries in order to determine what you want and what interests you.
Making something that requires longer searches will simply skew our data
and make it harder for us to know what you want.”
Despite Google’s assertion, I keep searching. Now my collaborator,
Daniel C. Howe, and I keep searching. We’ve already, like many others,
come up against another important limit. If you search too much or too fast
(even manually I found), then Google’s engine thinks you might be a process
(as it is) and that you might be making automated queries. This produces the
same threat to Google’s underlying purpose, the threat of skewed analytical
data. However, to us it seems as if we are simply retrieving access to our
own linguistic culture. Usually, we are simply mining the corpus that Google
makes accessible—in an unprecedented manner—for “natural language
data.” In writing to be found, I seek out the chaotic edge of what is being
142 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
written and is soon to be found by myself and others, the edge of what
literary culture acknowledges to be attributable authorship.17 Isn’t this a
legitimate engagement with what Google promises us? Shouldn’t these
admittedly or purportedly poetic queries be accepted as a part of the culture
with which they also engage?
As a matter of fact, we continue to write programs that generate
automated queries and it is strange that Google—itself a vast conglomeration
of processes—rejects them as such. Shouldn’t Google be prepared to pass
judgment as to whether a process is an innocent cultural address to its
services rather than assume that any automated inquiry is an attempt to
undermine or deflect it from its prime, commercial objective?18 Returning
to a concrete example that engages related concerns with poetics and the
author function, I realized that using the Google search query’s “not” prefix
(a minus sign) I might search for sequences of words from well-known texts
(delimited by quote marks) that would be found in the corpus but in places
where they were not associated with their well-known “authors.” I used
this negatively qualified version of the procedure described above, testing
successively longer sequences and aiming to find the longest sequences that
also satisfied the essential condition of not being attributed to the famous
author. This produces a text that, paradoxically, is collaged from phrases
that are quoted from arbitrary internet unknowns but which, when linked
together, will compose a famous text. Before supplying an actual example, I
want simply to point out that the program I write to undertake this entirely
legitimate chapter in conceptual poetics generates a large number of test
searches even for a brief text and it will find itself frequently blocked by
Google’s suspicion of and ultimate denial of my own process’s high cultural
intentions.19
“blue and white of sky”a “a moment still”b “April morning in the”c “mud
it’s over”d “it’s done I’ve had the”e “image the scene is”f “empty a few”g
“animals still then”h “goes out no more”i “blue I stay”j “there way off
on”k “the right in the mud”l “the hand opens and closes”m “that helps
me it’s”n “going let it go I”o “realize I’m still smiling”p “there’s no sense
in that now”q “been none for a long time now”r “my tongue comes out”s
“again lolls”t “in the mud i stay”u “there no more”v “thirst the tongue”w
“goes in the mouth”x “closes it must be a”y “straight line now it’s”z “over
it’s done I’ve had”aa “the image”bb
This is Beckett, three fragments from How It Is which also correspond to the
final part of a short prose work he originally published in French as l’Image.
But it is also possible to assert that is not Beckett but rather something that
I have written together with Google, where we have conspired to calculate
a maximal syntagmatic association with Beckett’s texts while ensuring that
these sequences are attributable to others, often many others, and we do this
WRITING TO BE FOUND AND WRITING READERS 143
“a moment still” “animals still then” “April morning in the” “blue and
white of sky” “been none for a long time now” “blue I stay” “empty a
few” “there no more” “mud it’s over” “my tongue comes out” “thirst the
tongue” “goes out no more” “goes in the mouth” “again lolls” “closes
it must be a” “straight line now it’s” “the hand opens and closes” “that
helps me it’s” “going let it go I” “realize I’m still smiling” “in the mud
I stay” “it’s done I’ve had the” “image the scene is” “there way off on”
“the right in the mud” “over it’s done I’ve had” “the image” “there’s no
sense in that now”
Clearly a lot more could, and will, be done with the procedures of writing to
be found, including with this latter variation in which one rediscovers how
much of what has been written has already been written. Google makes all
of this possible, and Google also stands in the way of these unanticipated
essays. One very significant reason to continue to work in this way is
precisely to reveal how Google and other similar agencies will reform what
they pretend to enable, and how our existing institutions that support
writing as a cultural practice will relate to the profound reformations that
must ensue.
Four
The “writing readers” within a major collaborative project in digitally
mediated literary art are underpinned by the critical, contemporary, quietly
hacktivist natural language processing and research initiated in “writing to
be found.” The Readers Project incorporates “writing with Google,” and
144 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
server, a feed to which you may subscribe by accessing a URL with a browser
and with other clients under development. Subscribed to a particular reader,
you may read along with it and see clearly the textual path it has chosen,
according to its particular reading strategies.
In simple terms these readers check the proximate neighboring words of
the word they have just read and they “know”—from the results of their
writers’ struggle with Google—whether or not any or all of those proximate
words will represent likely natural language phrases.22 Daniel C. Howe and
I are the writers of these readers and we, along with other coded processes,
struggled with Google, sending queries to its “books” domain to see how
many instances of thousands of three-word phrases had already been
inscribed as writing to be found and how frequently they had been inscribed
in the net’s textual corpus, if at all.
Many of you reading this will understand that this is far from being
an entirely novel approach. However, although our readers may seem to
be following a simple Markov chain, the actual processes and models
deployed in The Readers Project conceal some significant differences to
a standard Markov model.23 More importantly and finally, these readers
were written with processes that hacked near-live statistical data out of
the Google-indexed internet corpus of all the inscribed cultural material
that can be found. Writers of readers like these could not have made
anything approaching their capabilities until very recently, or not without
huge, institutionally maintained resources. We were and are able to make
these readers remarkably up-to-the-minute in their model-driven analyses
of the texts that they were written to read. They know what they need to
know about the latest writing to be found on the net in their domain. This
knowledge was mined iteratively from the language that we all gave over and
continue to give over to Google and, in so far as Google was uninterested
in or threatened by the queries we needed to make in order to gather our
readers’ simple knowledge, that knowledge is the result of a fascinating
struggle that—for this reader at least—is a model in micro-procedure of
the struggles that we must all undertake as our institutions of culture pass
over its care and disposition to all those strange engines of inquiry that may
suddenly reject our search for writing. They reject our queries for reasons
that we may not entirely comprehend. Not yet and perhaps, not ever.
10
Weapons of the Deconstructive
Masses (WDM):
Whatever Electronic Literature
May or May Not Mean
Naming
As a matter of historical fact—and not only in the United States—“electronic
literature” has emerged as a preferred term, one now destined to survive
even my own attempts at deconstruction, especially since the publication
of N. Katherine Hayles watershed, digestible, CD-equipped, all-in-one
critical review, come constructive textbook, come seminal polemic, come
new theoretical framework: Electronic Literature: New Horizons for the
Literary.2 Thus, whereas we never had “steam literature,” or “electric
literature,” or “telephonic” or “televisual literature”—at least not of
any cultural moment or persistence—we have already had “electronic
literature” for a remarkably long time, especially given the hyperhistory
of new media development. If by electronic literature we mean practices
of writing in networked and programmable media—what I have always
WEAPONS OF THE DECONSTRUCTIVE MASSES (WDM) 149
literature itself and how this impacts on artistic culture broadly addressed.
Liu’s approach contrasts tellingly. Hayles accepts, more or less as a given,
that there is a viable electronic literature and that we are (therefore) obliged
to address its specificities and challenges. Liu is radically uncertain about the
position of literature and the literary in what he sees as the now predominant,
overarching “culture of information.” In this—our contemporary—culture
he discovers “cool” as a (perhaps the) prime aesthetic operator. As a backdrop
to my argument, I’m required to knit together a number of citations from
Liu’s book that will provide a somewhat troubling delineation of this term
in his insightful usage. “Cool” information troubles literature and seems to
render it “uncool” in proportion to its redefinition culture itself.
What is the future of the literary when the true aestheticism unbound of
knowledge work—as seen on innumerable Web pages—is “cool”? Cool
is the techno-informatic vanishing point of contemporary aesthetics,
psychology, morality, politics, spirituality, and everything. No more
beauty, sublimity, tragedy, grace, or evil: only cool or not cool.6
But “cool,” for Liu, also indicates an aporia that might paradoxically provide
a solution to his aesthetic aporia.
What transitional aesthetics can bridge the rift between class-based and
classless aesthetics, between a “distinction” of literature that is now dying
and its resurrection in a new body or form? Or, in a less utopian voice,
what aesthetics can represent itself to itself as transitional in this manner?
My argument is that the answer inheres in the avowed aesthetics of
contemporary knowledge workers: “cool.”7
The problem remains (more on this below) that he cannot see how the
contemporary artistic practice of literature, even an electronic or digital
literature, can become a part of this process of aesthetic transformation in,
shall we say, a theoretically unified way.
Before proceeding, we must also be a little clearer about how we
qualify those literary practices that currently bear the epithet “electronic.”
Unsurprisingly, this hinges on some understanding of the methods and
properties of artistic practice itself, especially those we may characterize
WEAPONS OF THE DECONSTRUCTIVE MASSES (WDM) 151
The literary
I want to return now to the problem of “the literary” and its critique
in networked and programmable media, to the question of culturally,
historically established forms and how these interrelate with writing digital
media. Here, “writing,” as opposed to “literature,” allows me to link forward
to a demonstration of how—as I see it—underlying, persistent, perhaps even
necessarily persistent, forms determine art practices as literary.9
152 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
I’m not very interested in that any more from that point of view and in
that form. That was theorized and that was done—then. The path was
WEAPONS OF THE DECONSTRUCTIVE MASSES (WDM) 153
broken experimentally for these new typographies long ago, and today
it has become ordinary. So we must invent other “disorders,” ones that
are more discreet, less self-congratulatory and exhibitionist, and this time
contemporary with the computer.12
These are two fantasmatic limits of the book to come, two extreme, final,
eschatic figures of the end of the book, the end as death, or the end as
telos or achievement. We must take seriously these two fantasies; what’s
more they are what makes writing and reading happen. They remain as
irreducible as the two big ideas of the book, of the book both as the unit
of a material support in the world, and as the unity of a work or unit of
discourse (a book in the book).13
the Kurzweilian “Singularity”) a person from Derrida’s and our own age
must believe that writing on paper will always, at least, be legible.
I’m using Derrida to reinforce and authorize our sense that there is
an important, irreducible relationship between writing and historically
determined material culture. I use Derrida, in particular, in order to establish
this relationship as one that will be appreciated as both critically and
theoretically sophisticated and as allied with innovative, experimental, and
emergent cultural formations. But now I need to put forward a proposition
concerning the relationship between writing and persistent form which
seems to me compelling and consonant with that between writing and
material culture, but which is not, in any way that is obvious to me, a
necessary consequence of this or any other immediate relation. Rather it
is a consequence of language, of the specifically human form of symbolic
manipulation and interaction. Because they are universal to, if not definitive
of, the human, practices of language require historically persistent forms in
order be able to yield their significance and affect—the meanings and the
aesthetic values with which they may be inscribed—more than in the case
of symbolic manipulation in other media. Language cannot be writing, a
fortiori literary writing, without a form that persists beyond some simple
act of artifactual conception. My proposition might be regarded as one of
those truisms—no information without form—but I think it gains some
traction if the comparative part of the proposition—more than in the case
of other media—is conceded as something with which we can work. In
plainer words, what I’m proposing could be recast as claiming: because
everyone uses language, because everyone writes, we need more in the way
of agreed persistent form to help us decide what part of all the language and
writing that is produced has appreciable meaning and/or beauty. “More,”
that is, than in the case of practices of symbolic expression in other media
which may be technically specialized and subject to explicit disciplines and
so, somewhat paradoxically, better able to cope with formless essays by
recognized practitioners of, for example, painting, music, sound art, visual
and conceptual art, performance, and so on. To answer my question above,
“Whence the implicit formal conservatism of ‘writing?’” It has to be formally
conservative because everyone writes, not just writers.
What Liu—a literary scholar after all—does not so much consider is any
existing difference in the cultural critical appreciation of this purported
aesthetic aporia when we compare responses to it in the world, for example,
of visual art—broadly conceived—with those in the world of literary
art—equally broadly conceived. Liu’s ultimate discomfiture with “cool”
does not obtain as strongly in the world of art. It has long been the case—
and Liu’s evocation of “the modernist avant-garde” as our most recent
pioneering exemplars of an aesthetics of destructive creativity suggests as
much—that art can be cool without ceasing to be art, without losing its
way through to some assured sense of what should be considered artistic.
When art encountered radical innovation, scholars and critics were not
156 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
driven to retreat from “art” per se and recast their responses in terms of
a troubled conception of the “the artistic.” Even today “electronic arts,”
“ars electronica” gives me, for one, less pause than “electronic literature.”
It seems precisely to be the point that Liu’s struggle with cool is a problem
for literature and literary culture. Liu cannot theorize a place for literature
in the culture of cool. Hayles requires the literary to survive and prosper by
forging cultural links with intelligent cyborgs and machines. I would like to
suggest that literature both requires and generates historical and material
cultural form to operate and that this necessity renders it uncomfortable
within a culture that is predicated on continual, arbitrary, contingent formal
innovation.
I am not, in this, saying that literature should be comfortable, nor that
it should steer clear of the rampant formal innovation that programmable
media make ever more possible and inevitable. Quite the contrary, as is
evidenced in my own practice, teaching, and in some of the examples I will
examine here. I am simply suggesting that for “the literary” to be active as
an aesthetic or interpretative framework in the course of our critical and
theoretical engagements with language-driven digital media, then we must
take account of a historical relationship to material cultural form which
is different from the corresponding relationship in respect to other artistic
practices. To bolster this claim and before moving on to examples of practice
and further final thoughts on culture, I make three hasty references. First, I
refer back to my brief discussion of Derrida’s and our own nostalgia for the
book, for paper, for formal signs of the support on which we will always
be able to have inscribed ourselves, especially after we are gone. This is a
familiar affective concern, bringing together the universal human drive to
write (by which I mean inscribe in any form, from speech to projection in
social networks) and the universal human address to mortality calling for
a lasting monument of some kind. Those of us who will not live forever
seem to be strongly driven to have written something, anything, and the
drive for this to be in some form that will continue to be read is also strong.
Second, my call for the literary to acknowledge its special relationship and to
practice in acknowledged relationship with historically established, material
cultural form, corresponds with Liu’s proposed resuscitation of “cool” in
that, for him, cool artistic practice is culturally, aesthetically engaged when
it manifests an informed historical critique as a function of its destructive
creativity.19 Finally, consider how different the practical engagement of
visual and related arts with new media formal innovation has been and
will be. Conceptual art is crucial here. Conceptual art is the art that comes
closest in its techniques to the algorithmic expressive processing that drives
digitally mediated cultural production. In this art, the underlying concept is,
fundamentally, the form. Its material cultural realization may be important
for the work’s affect and significance, but at least since the “modernist avant-
garde” as invoked by Liu, material culturally, any form will do, in that any
WEAPONS OF THE DECONSTRUCTIVE MASSES (WDM) 157
form might record the concept equally well. Any further meaning and beauty
of the work’s form becomes contingent without damage to its concept. The
material form simply adds to or subtracts from the ultimate significance of
the work. My point is that for “the literary” the situation is different. The
literary form is already necessarily, by definition, symbolic. It is constituted
as such. Its form cannot be entirely separated from whatever concept drives
the work. It cannot be entirely contingent. There is far less “free play” in the
formal realization of a literary work, be it mediated digitally or in any other
manifestation. Hence the paucity of literary form in “Art & Language” and
related conceptualism. Any literary aesthetic within Art & Language is—
typically—slight, and exhausted in the realization of the work. Its visual,
material form is contingent, like that of other conceptual art, but its scant
relationship to literary form further minimizes its aesthetic and constrains
its materiality to, for example, legibility. Is Jenny Holzer literary? We will
have reason to refer to her work again shortly.
Pieces like Soderman’s in which the literary mechanisms are integral to the
whole of the writing are still scarce. Multimedia representation enhanced
by expressive processing is typical, and, typically, both encapsulates and
seduces the literary in digital media. It’s there, but it is overwhelmed and
consumed by its new media hostess.25 We see something cool but we stop
reading it or imagining that it might be singing to us, or spinning a tale, or
addressing our verbal memories, or offering itself to us as a closing book
that we have read and that reads us.
The Katko and Valla piece is something that we expect to find in electronic
literature, but, as culture shifts, Caleb Larsen’s variety of language-driven
work is likely to be even more widely propagated than the Katko and Valla
variety and it is, especially if we end up conceding that it is also in some way
literary, even more troubling for literature than cool representation. You
might well say that it’s cool, but it’s not.
Larsen’s Whose Life Is It Anyway? is simple.26 It’s a text generator for
Twitter, what would now be called a chatbot. As the wired world knows,
Twitter is a personalized text-based news feed. You subscribe and make a
site/identity for yourself; you update this site at indeterminate intervals with
short texts that describe what you are doing, thinking, feeling, whatever.
Other subscribers can follow your twitter and stay updated with your
updates. You can do all this by mobile phone using an easy lightweight
bridge between the developed and developing world’s currently preferred all-
but-ubiquitous communication devices and the internet. I promised another
mention of Jenny Holzer. Holzer twitters, and you can easily imagine in
what manner.27 You don’t have to subscribe. As she will have said, “THERE
IS NO POINT IN READING ANYTHING THAT YOU KNOW WILL
HAVE BEEN WRITTEN.”
Larsen’s twitter is a little different. Responding to another common
trope of the information age, his twitter assists with the oft-lamented lack
of time that information society engenders. We can program these devices
of social projection to project ourselves for us. Larsen’s Twitter account
is a crafted grammar of plausible (for Larsen) actions, thoughts, feelings,
whatever. His databases, algorithms, and grammars, along with a variety
of triggers, now tell him and everyone else what he is doing and thinking
without his having to spend or waste time on this demanding projection
of himself for his “followers.” It’s clever, it’s a critique of current and
developing mores, and it’s “cool,” we say. It’s undoubtedly language-
driven—as used to be true of the internet generally—but is it literary?
Here, Liu’s analysis may help since, as Liu would say, a “yes” answer is
only really possible if Larsen’s piece is critical and it becomes stronger
as art in so far as it is destructive, in the sense of undermining a social
practice that is the subject of its critique. Stronger as “art” I said and it
is easier to see the piece as digital art than as writing digital media, and
this is, I believe, at least in part for the reasons I’ve identified. There is
WEAPONS OF THE DECONSTRUCTIVE MASSES (WDM) 161
and write differently now. I use those verbs advisedly. In so far as they are
outmoded, they are all the more indicative of how culture is changing. If,
that is, we read these words—“read” and “write”—as our chief methods of
culture.
At this point it is still true, I believe, that “read” and “write” and
whatever it is that we create or interpret which bears some relation to “the
literary,” despite the fact that it will in almost every case be mediated by
a programmaton (computer), is still created and interpreted “with a view
to the final printing on paper, whether or not this takes place.”28 And in
so far as art and music, for example, require articulated interpretation in
some form, this statement also applies to all cultural production, including
everything not otherwise embraced by “the literary.” The deep attachment to
writing on paper—to a grammatology which has inhabited a long persistent
material cultural world—has already definitely passed over to writing “with
a view” to paper, and this is a major reconfiguration (one, for example, that
is transforming the mediation of academic authority). However, as others
have pointed out, the book and its tropes are easily represented, easily
remediated, within the culture to come, and books and paper will survive
as physical objects, material supports, for at least a generation or two. The
book will end with precisely the ambiguity that Derrida anticipated: it will
close and it will achieve its apotheosis.
I am more concerned with the way in which this literal, this literary
achievement impacts on questions of subjectivity, privacy, the unconscious,
and interiority. As critics and theorists, including Derrida, have pointed
out, there are strong links between what is articulable in relation to these
questions and language, and between language and its culturally privileged
material supports—currently still, we claim: a view to books and paper.
It is of course less clear where we locate any possible engine of cultural
change: does embodied language determine subjectivity or does en-worlded
subjectivity determine the culture of embodied language? Moreover, if we
now entertain the notion of other-intelligence/subjectivities emerging in
among posthuman cyborg cognizers, might these become a distinct motor
of change, as Hayles would be likely to argue?
To this last question, I believe that we are now required to answer in the
affirmative. Larsen’s twittering may be cool; it might be dismissed as too
cool for academic critique, but taken together with other manifest cultural
reconfigurations, it can also be seen as highly indicative. It is integral with
and a window onto the massively—popular and creatively—destructive
worlds of social networking. There, or rather, here, we no longer project
Sherry Turkle–style psychosocially transformative avatars; these networked,
programmatically mediated social networks “R US”—they are making us
what we are. Ultimately, they are transparent; at most they can be only what
Derrida calls “a secret with no mystery.”29
WEAPONS OF THE DECONSTRUCTIVE MASSES (WDM) 163
devices for encoding, computation, and display; protocols for storage and
transmission—but this is simply an aspect of the processes of inscription. To
be writing, it must be able to come to a surface, on a network terminal, as
terms of reference for human readers.
I will pretend to be definite about the network. The network under
discussion is the internet. This particular network has a remarkable history
that is much studied. Within my terms of reference, I will highlight one or
two properties of the internet. It was deliberately developed as a distributed
system, having no need of a central mechanism for control, surveillance,
or policing at either the point of access or to ensure network continuity
and maintenance. Relatively straightforward protocols still allow arbitrary
devices to join and leave the network at will. When a device joins the
network, it may do so as a peer: it may have (or be associated with) an
address on the network that is, in a number of significant senses, the equal
of every other such address on the network. In the West at least, the human
user or reader is not required to engage in explicit contractual or state-
implicated administrative procedures in order to connect a device to the
network. I am deliberately simplifying a complex situation, but here my
point is to stress our sense of an underlying correspondence of relations. On
the network, functioning like an open commons, the relationship between
a terminal and the network has been constructed so as to correspond with
the relationship between an individual human writer and reader, and a
kind of pre-institutional, neo-Romantic world of reading and writing that
we associate with Western liberalism.1 I would argue, further, that this
correspondence evokes the configurations of affect associated with the latter
relation and reinforces a sensible belief that connections on the network are
commensurable with a certain widely approved, predominant sociopolitical
understanding of self and society.
Overall, as a function of massively popular consensus, the effect of this
correspondence is that we feel good about the network, and perhaps—
perhaps too often—we think good about it. We give in to it. We have
certainly, on a massive scale, given into it. We have given into it to the extent
that it now stores and gives access to what is rapidly becoming the world
of reading and writing. We undertook this work of transcription ourselves
because it seemed good to us. Now a collective commons of peer devices on
the network appears to accept, to hold, and so stand ready and able to give
back for us to read so much of all that we have written into it, especially
since the mid-1990s. Indeed, so much has been inscribed into the network
that new services have been developed, especially services of search, helping
us to find our way through all this writing and get back to reading, of a kind.
So far so good, in a sense. The story is familiar to almost all of us.
In recent years, network triumphalism has come to focus on the benefits
and affordances of “big data.” The ability to store, digitally, and analyze,
algorithmically, overwhelming quantities of data has rendered it “big” in
TERMS OF REFERENCE & VECTORALIST TRANSGRESSIONS 167
This situation had long been in place before the provision and effective
promotion of network-based “cloud” computing. Now Big Software runs
from the “cloud.” It invites us to the cloud, offering services associated with
our provision of data. Terms of use regulate this mediation of our data
and—often “by default”—the same terms may cause us to agree that our
data will be mined and manipulated, albeit anonymously, as we move it into
the “cloud.” Both the tools we use to read and write and the material traces
TERMS OF REFERENCE & VECTORALIST TRANSGRESSIONS 171
of our textual practice come to be stored on systems that are removed from
us as readers and writers. We are increasingly dependent on self-regulating,
proprietary services without which we cannot gain access to our reading
or our writing, and whenever we do gain access, we do so on terms. These
circumstances have momentous consequences for textual practice, and their
careful consideration is crucial.
As a phrase of current English, “terms of use” associates, like “terms of
reference,” with the “terms” of “search terms,” “key terms,” crowd-sourcing
“terms” or “tags,” the “terms” of an argument or discourse, and with our
“use” of these and all others terms as an aspect of “language use”—the
“usages” of all linguistic interlocution. Language is a commons, and yet, in
contrast to the commons of the world’s natural resources, it is a commons
that is directly constitutive of culture while at the same time incorporated
“within” any culture it enables. This is demonstrable in that there are only
enculturated languages (plural), and thus, in each instance, a particular
language is one of a plurality of commons that welcomes any user of its
specific, located resources. As a commons—radically co-constitutive of the
cultures within which we dwell—in order to use a language, we do not
expect to agree to terms. Rather, languages set out the terms of reference for
culture itself, the only articulable terms it knows. This makes it all the more
important, in an era during which the “digital (mediation of) textuality”
comes to predominate, that we take full account of any implicit agreements
as to terms of language use where these are being reiteratively ratified by a
vast and growing population of highly influential language users.
We cannot proceed without continuing to refer to the most obvious
example of Big Software that is currently used by hundreds of millions of
people, all of whom have thus agreed to terms. Google sets out terms of
service that regulate the significant aspects of textual practice in which it
specializes.15 This one company processes more text, more linguistic material,
than any other computational service on the planet. The particular service—
page-ranked indexed searching—that established Google as a commercial
and culture powerhouse is founded on textual analysis of web pages and
their tagged links.
Google’s and most other related services are still explicitly designed to be
responsive to phrases or clauses of natural language composed by human
172 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
writers who wish to find something to read, even if only with the goal
of undertaking a commercial transaction or satisfying a desire. Intimately
linked to this service provision is the question of how these and now many
other interconnected services relate to the vital institutions of literary
culture, in at least two ways: at a collective level through their effects on
(not an exhaustive list) publishers, libraries, and universities; and at an
individual or collaborative level through their effects on literary aesthetic
practice.
As writers and readers, we are forced to consider that our relationship with
language and literature will never be the same. If the medium of literary art
has significantly migrated to the network, where it is gathered, channeled,
and filtered by Big Software on a massive scale, daily touching the linguistic
lives of huge populations, then new practices for reading and writing with
and against such services must surely arise and go beyond any uses that are
constrained by the terms of service or use now made unilaterally explicit by
contemporary service providers.
I build and that interacts with these services is “bad” by default, guilty until
proven innocent, normally without any reasonable opportunity to prove
itself one way or the other. In these extraordinary circumstances, there are
undoubtedly multiple transgressions of processes and actions in relation to
whatever threshold we maintain between the human and the algorithmic, the
non- or post-human. Our institutional management and understanding of
this threshold is undertaken by forces that are neither mutual nor reciprocal.
The de facto control exercised over these relations by corporations such as
Google and Facebook is very much under-examined. However, one thing is
made clear to us: we should not behave like non-humans, and perhaps not
even like unusual humans with unusual interests.
In these late days, we have become involved, as humans, with a highly complex
and sophisticated system of chiefly robotic, Big Software–driven processes,
while, at the same time, being expressly constrained in the interactive use
of our own robotic or algorithmic processes. Interestingly, certain unusual
and even aesthetic processes may be substituted for those we might describe
as robotic or algorithmic, but they may nonetheless be automatically—
immediately and materially—disallowed by the undoubtedly robotic agents
182 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
of our providers’ terms of service. This highlights the fact that, despite a
rhetoric of universal access and maximized usefulness across any domain of
information, we are being coerced into using processes that are, minimally,
mimetic of normal human users, normally equipped. We are coerced into
using normalized “human” processes that will engage with those of our
network service providers in such a way as to perform transactions leading
to huge marginal profit for these providers.
Currently, this marginal profit is derived from the management of human
attention so as to direct it to advertising. This may be all very well when
the media of interaction are, substantively, contiguous with and devoted
to commercial transaction and exchange. However, network services will
enclose, monitor, and process any and all linguistic practice by their users,
everything from everyday, habitual intercommunication to “high-literary,”
“high-theoretical,” “high-critical” correspondence and production. These
services exist to process (albeit, typically, with anonymization) and vectoralize
the commons of language, the commons of symbolic interlocution. This co-
option of a vast domain of linguistic events and transactions in the service
of vectoralist redirection of cultural attention requires stronger critique
than it has so far encountered, allied with general and thorough resistance
and regulation by existing social institutions of all kinds, including those of
literary aesthetic practice.
Perhaps the most intimate, linguistically implicated transgression
enacted as a result of human interaction with network services is the
capture of words that are proper to the human writer and the manufacture
of advertisements from these very words. The words in question may have
been enveloped by a login, by their enclosure within an email message, by
their insertion into a search field.31 However, terms of service—enclosing
the “enveloping” frameworks themselves—ensure that these thresholds
are transgressible by algorithms that will extract words and phrases,
associate them with putatively desirable commodities and services and
then, incorporate them, across other framing thresholds, within the bodies
of advertising copy. This copy may then be instantly re-presented back to
the human reader who wrote the words for entirely other purposes and in
entirely other contexts.32 The abstraction of linguistic elements guarantees,
to an extent, our inability to own or hoard them as such; however our
reading and writing of sequences of words, linguistic elements, does cause
them to exist as proper to ourselves, authored. I consider this the operation
of linguistic ontology, bringing written words into being within and
belonging to the human subject (who may then, of course, abject them for
other human subjects).33 Even the catastrophically flawed legal conventions
of copyright establish strings of words as licensable “things,” belonging
to an author. So, then, taking words of mine to make advertisements is, I
argue, even more of a corporally invasive appropriation than would obtain
if an advertising algorithm captured the image of its addressee and then
TERMS OF REFERENCE & VECTORALIST TRANSGRESSIONS 183
FIGURE 12.1 John Baldessari. The Duress Series: Person Climbing Exterior Wall
of Tall Building/Person on Ledge of Tall Building/Person on Girders of Unfinished
Tall Building, 2003. Digital photographic print with acrylic on Sintra. 60 × 180
inches. Reproduction courtesy of John Baldessari.
190 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
cannot read it, as composed—not yet and, I believe, perhaps not ever. But
the story, as it was written, did have at least one human reader, Jackson,
whose authorial integrity is well attested. A total of 2,095 volunteers will
eventually contact Jackson and agree to have one of the story’s words
tattooed somewhere on their body. These words are inscribed on the mortal
flesh of the volunteers who read them, allowing, we presume, others with
whom they are close to read these words also. These individuals cannot
know or read the “whole story,” but they know it exists and that they
may be able to read it in some virtual future. The people with the tattoos
are called “words.” Some of them have already died; more of them may
do so. One day the story will be as complete as it will ever be. Words will
be missing, but there will remain a record of these words and the text of
the story will be, inherently—ontologically I would venture—recoverable
because, somewhat paradoxically, given that the entire story cannot be
read as published, this is a text that is maximally integrated with a very
particular and unusual but very powerful, ethical, moral, and mortal
culture of human reading.
§
Earlier in the course of this chapter, I proposed that if human reading is
required in order to affirm the ontological status of a linguistic artifact,
then an ethics of digital language arts practice was suggested. There is an
imperative to read and to perform works that might otherwise remain
indistinguishable from that part of chaos which consists in symbolic noise
and insignificant, inaffective transaction. There is also now, I believe, a
politics and a social ethics. At this current moment in history, symbolic
processes are propagated over networked programmable media in order to
provide services of various kinds for human users. We agree, by using these
services, to (generally speaking) non-mutual, non-reciprocal terms of use.
These processes are undoubtedly addressed to humans, but they are now set
running on systems that manage data and interactions on a scale that makes
effective human interaction, including any comprehensive reading—even of
indexes and aggregations—more or less impossible. Moreover, the processes
are motivated, primarily, so as to direct attention (toward advertisement)
or to allow transaction (chiefly commercial), all in order to accumulate
marginal profits on behalf of the service providers. Such a statement is,
perhaps, part of one human, but distant reading of the symbolic practice
that is generated as a kind of sociopolitical metatext by these processes. It
is not a literal, interpretive reading of this “text” in terms of language, in
terms of its significance and affect as a chaotic, implicated mass of linguistic
artifacts. It is not the sort of reading that would bring the symbolic practices
READING AND GIVING: VOICE AND LANGUAGE 197
of network services into the being of language as such. For such a reading
to be possible, these processes would have to become commensurate with
human experience, with the full extent and range of significance and
affect that we ascribe to human readers. This, they are not. They focus on
those aspects of our shared world that are overdetermined by commerce
and control and, ultimately, ill-distributed power. Our situation calls for a
reading and a performance of the virtual, pseudo-language with which we
now constantly transact and which constantly draws our attention. I believe
that if we attempt such a reading we will find that there is very little, among
the countless, ever-spinning threads of big data on the internetworked web-
cloud, that we would be able to bring into the actually existing world of
language. Other kinds of writing must continue to be made and given voice,
writing that can be read and that will exist.
13
Reconfiguration: Symbolic Image
and Language Art
the “New Aesthetic,” one of the few terms in current art-critical discussion
that addresses a poetics of computation explicitly.9
Critical discourse is conversant with a specialist, mildly metaphoric
usage for the term “image” such that it may be applied without regard
to the medium in which an image is expressed—an image in language, an
image in music. Nonetheless, in the discussion of New Aesthetic, actual
visual examples tend to predominate, and these visual images (often also
“visualizations”) may be marked by perceptible breaks in the visual field
that are the trace of computationally generated artifactuality (although
usually referred to—and I consider this a misdirection—as “virtual” or
“virtuality”). I characterize these breaks as media-constituted and have,
previously, analyzed them in terms of diegesis.10 For a particular New
Aesthetic visual image (in both senses of “image”), for example, there may
be diegeses constituted by photo-naturalism and by computer-generated
graphics. A quick internet image search for “New Aesthetic” will bring up
many images within which this distinction is clear and marked—computer
graphic “sprites” are found sharing the visual field with conventional color
photography but clearly arriving within this field from “another world,”
another media-constituted diegesis.
The work of Clement Valla is frequently cited as an example of the New
Aesthetic and I can illustrate what I mean, in a more subtle form and one
more broadly applicable across media (mediums), in a brief discussion of
his Postcards from Google Earth, using the same illustration as that in the
engaging manifesto for the “New Aesthetic” by Curt Cloninger (Figure 13.1).11
I had a visit today, for monitoring, from almost the only group that
ever comes to me, rather than me going to them. I needed to make it
about them and their needs, not about me and my needs. I needed a new
atmosphere, a new environment, and I found it and I’m extremely excited
and happy: people with bipolar disorder will have a mixture of negative
and positive feeling all at the same time, and in time, and in your own
time, etc.22
and also in order to link the found linguistic images together. Ironically, this
particular process also “heals” what might otherwise have been instances of
grammatical dissonance indicating the main constituent diegeses within the
symbolic image. In terms of reconfiguration, internet search configures the
potential discovery of the natural linguistic images and, as a language artist,
I have reconfigured this Big Software cultural architecture to produce my
reconfigurationist symbolic image in language.
Francesca Capone’s Primary Source provides us, in conclusion, with an
example of reconfigurationist symbolic image, the production of which is
more clearly, and in the contemporary moment more typically, involved
with prosthetic technologies—transactive devices—that are configured by
Big Software and may be reconfigured in order to produce aesthetic images,
in this case, those associated with a delightful, minimal performance of
poetically implicated language that Capone has rendered as a video
installation with, effectively, multi-channel presentation, and as an artifact
“existing in a hybrid space between a chapbook and artists book.”23
Primary Source manifested itself in the course of practice-based research,
when the artist discovered, on Brown University Library’s subterranean
poetry shelves, a Russian language book with a striking cover design, set
with a quasi-regular grid in the manner of Mondrian and de Stijl, and
sparsely populated with the words of the book’s title. These words, Russian
in the Cyrillic alphabet, were initially unreadable to Capone. Capone made
use of the WordLens app on her mobile phone to try and decipher the title.
Figure 13.2 shows the cover and four pages from Capone’s chapbook.
The cover displays an image of the artist’s phone, running WordLens, itself
showing an acquired image of the Russian source book’s cover before
WordLens has attempted to provide a visualized translation into English.
Transcribed and conventionally translated, this is the cover of Den’ poėzii
(Day of Poetry), the 1962 volume of an annual that was published by the
Soviet Writer publishing house in Moscow from 1956. To the immediate
right of the cover we see one of many translations offered by WordLens
FIGURE 13.2 The cover and four pages (on two openings) from Francesca Capone’s
Primary Source. Courtesy of the artist.
RECONFIGURATION 209
when it was set to translate from Russian to English. The other three images
show differing configurations, and the fourth is the detail of a reading from
the top right of the grid.
WordLens, released by Octavio Good in 2010, is an application broadly
associated with so-called “augmented reality.” Typically, such applications
use the camera of a mobile device to capture images from the “real” world
and then “augment” these images with layers of visual or textual information.
WordLens tries to find and capture the images of words—the graphic forms
of words in any language—and then translate these words or phrases into
one of a number of possible host languages, selected by the user and would-
be reader. On screen, WordLens then replaces the reality-supplied word-
image with the image of a supposedly corresponding—“translated”—word
in the user’s selected language. WordLens worked remarkably well. It was
acquired by Google in 2014 and is now incorporated into Google Translate.
When WordLens was applied to the grid-embedded title of this Russian
book, Capone discovered a virtual linguistic beauty in the augmented reality
that it proposed to her. WordLens successfully translated the title itself, but its
would-be prosthetic, word-form-seeking sensory apparatus was “confused”
by the cover’s de Stijl grid. It is likely that WordLens looks for text as, itself,
a more or less regular grid-like pattern, and so it also tries to “read” what,
to our non-augmented eyes, is purely formal grid, finding language-symbolic
“differences” where we do not. Moreover, the differences that WordLens
sees are tiny, affected by slight movements or changes of focus and light.
These cause WordLens to revise its reading continually—even when set to
interpret from a single language—and, effectively, to produce an animated
sequence of textual events as it reads and rereads the grid and successively
augments its screen-projected reality with changing virtual text. What we
see has immediate appeal for us as creatures who read. It is not simply
that WordLens distorts and disturbs the visual field in a way that is merely,
sensually, pleasant for us. WordLens pretends to read the image itself and
there it discovers language for us in a structured field the potential symbolic
understanding of which is, perhaps, expressed at a resolution or in a form
that eludes our merely human visual acuity.
Capone’s composite video captures the animated, flickering engagement
of WordLens with translation, with actual words in a language that is
unknown to her and a grid that the algorithm also reads and misreads as
language. The symbolic image of her work is a synthesis of conventional
translation and a number of symbolic processes that are intended to augment
the human facility for translation. WordLens (re)configures translation. It is
significant that it renders translation through visuality, attempting, literally,
to overlay the visual forms of untranslated words that it discovers in an
image with the visual forms of translated words. It configures translation as
transfiguration. WordLens begins with the technology of optical character
recognition (OCR)—this is one of the chief symbolic processes that it brings
210 GRAMMALEPSY: ESSAYS ON DIGITAL LANGUAGE ART
temporal extension—not only the actual performance of its makers but also
the memories of particular individuals who have read (grammaleptically)
particular linguistic performances. This temporal affordance—hypostatic
memory or hypomnesis coupled with index and archive; preserving and
conserving both language itself and these other two features—allowed
writing, ironically, to predominate as the privileged literal index of
logocentric presence and authority: history, philosophy, civilization.
Putting it far too plainly: as the course of human history and culture
proceeded, language in aurality was not able to participate as effectively
as writing—as language in persistent visuality—for the constitution and
maintenance of civil and imperial institutions. Until, that is, just about now,
at this time of writing, in the 2010s. This decade has witnessed the advent of
transactive synthetic language in aurality.6 Contemporary computation has
finally achieved robust voice recognition and acceptable speech synthesis,
all implemented over network services having access to vast corpora of
natural linguistic material with NLP affordances. Historically, I argue, this
is a turning point for our—the language animal’s—practice of language
in the world, since, for one thing, this world now also contains, crucially,
humanoid language and new entities that perform, consume, and transact
with both language as such and humanoid language.
There might arise a certain objection to my dating of the proposed
paradigmatic shift, in that synthetic (computed) language has played a part
in the history of computation since its beginnings, including, foundationally,
in the exemplary abstracted scene of writing that is the Turing Test, for which
the withholding (by, at the time, teletype) of any embodied voice is crucial
for the test, since a voice and body would simply give the game away.7 In
a sense, the advent of systems that we humans agree are able to recognize
our voices and respond with—gendered and identifiable—voices of their
own forecloses the Turing Test and marks it as having already been passed
within the duration of any acceptable initial transaction. It is the system’s
voice—recognizing and producing virtual language and doing so necessarily
instantiated in aurality—that is sufficient to establish for us human animals
that the system is specifically embodied as, at least, humanoid, and certainly
as having (or seeming to have) something that only humans have. The
historical moment for our new relationship with language had to wait for
this milestone of humanoid embodiment, in and as the voice of articulated
aurality, perhaps also as the evolved return and reincarnation of a repressed
aurality. And for the electronic literature, that we have troubled and recast
as digital language art, this turning point requires us—practitioners and
scholars—to better understand what it is that “the digital” has done for
language. It has not (yet), as we said before, established an ontologically
distinct (digital) language as such; rather, it has reconfigured the relationship
between language and its preferred substantive media of support. More
than this, it suggests that we rethink, and shift our attention to the other
AT THE END OF LITERATURE 217
the hows and whens of reading and writing. This was and is momentous
enough, but hearing and speaking go on much as they have done, and the
predominance and momentum of reading and writing traditions were and
are minimally deflected. Even now, the most industry and energy that has
been expended on the remediation of literary practices has been applied to
artifacts that support the tradition of the book, of print-based, typographic
media—those emulators, images and mirrors of typographic artifacts that, in
English, go by the disfigured name of “ebooks.” Ebooks are with us, for the
time being and foreseeable future, but at the time of writing growth in their
popularity and dissemination has slowed. Over roughly the same period there
has been significant growth in the reading of audiobooks despite the fact that
culture predisposes these readers to an anxiety concerning whether or not
they have actually read what they are reading.9 As of 2018, the audiobook
is not digitally inscribed as language-in-aurality. It is, rather, digitized
audio with minimal digitally manipulable articulation corresponding most
commonly to the punctuation of books at the level of the chapter or subtitle.
Nonetheless, the reading of audiobooks represents a measurable shift in the
culture of reading as a whole, and this development coincides with what I
speculate will become the socialization of automatic speech recognition such
that the aurality of existing books is or will be grammatized at the level of (at
least) the word, and—to indicate merely practices that are already available
to certain readers—speech synthesizers are or will be able to present this
language-as-aurality to human readers directly, automatically. We will have
the option of reading in this newly articulated aurality.
If we can read in aurality then, as language animals and language
artists, we can compose in aurality. We can begin to make an aurature that
is formally, philosophically, ontologically identical with the literature we
have inherited, an aurature that will reconfigure and redefine the archive
without in any way sacrificing readability in general or the specific mode of
readability that has been established by literacy. The full civilizing potential
of this prospect—an aurature embodying facilities with language that are
attuned to our genetic disposition as language animals—is available to
us only due to crucial developments in digital culture and contemporary
computation. Hence, we can affirm that practices of digital language art—
especially in the reconfigured support media for language as an aesthetic
medium—at least makes sense, and may also imply, I believe, cultural and
social imperatives. Practitioners and theorists must learn and grasp those
computational affordances that will allow them, fully, to participate in, to
guide, and to enhance cultural and social developments that will otherwise
proceed without their contributions, and risk downplaying aesthetic
practice at the expense of what are supposed to be more substantive and
instrumentally secure benefits. What we do not want is to remain the
electronically literate writers of a history in which we find ourselves at the
end of all literature, with no viable media for the art of language.
NOTES
Introduction
1 I will not necessarily note my references in this introduction—strategically,
trusting the reader to discover my more scholarly allusions in the chapters
themselves—unless my references are not cited elsewhere in the book.
2 I am concerned with linguistic ontology, in outlining this concept of
grammalepsy, but I concentrate—in a manner consonant with a practitioner’s
inclinations—on the production and reproduction of language rather than on
what language is, in its fullness. Grammalepsy is, however, constituted by and
characteristic of reading by humans. As I say below, symbolic parsing is not
grammalepsis. And I agree with philosophers like Charles Taylor who ascribe
to what Taylor calls a “constitutive” theory of language rather than those
“designative” theories that are predominant, and particularly influential within
the “regime of computation,” where linguistic practice may be considered
reducible to calculation. The contrasting “constitutive” view proposes that
language allows us to become more than whatever we were before we “have”
it. Grammalepsy simply characterizes those moments when this takes place.
See, in particular, the first chapter, “Designative and Constitutive Views,” in
The Language Animal: The Full Shape of the Human Linguistic Capacity
(Cambridge: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2016).
3 This is, perhaps, the place to mention that, outside the scope of this selection
but in another not unrelated thread of discourse, I have written on related
problems of translation and, in particular, the translation of process. John
Cayley, “Digital wen: On the Digitization of Letter- and Character-Based
Systems of Inscription,” in Reading East Asian Writing: The Limits of Literary
Theory, ed. Michel Hockx and Ivo Smits, RoutledgeCurzon-IIAS Asian
Studies Series (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003); “Beginning with ‘the Image’
in How It Is When Translating Certain Processes of Digital Language Art,”
Electronic Book Review (2015); “Untranslatability and Readability,” Critical
Multilingualism Studies 3, no. 1 (2015); “The Translation of Process,” Amodern,
no. 8 (2018).
4 See: Matthew G. Kirschenbaum, Track Changes: A Literary History of Word
Processing (Cambridge: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2016).
5 Andrew Michael Roberts, “Why Digital Literature Has Always Been ‘Beyond
the Screen’,” in Beyond the Screen: Transformations of Literary Structures,
Interfaces and Genres, ed. Peter Gendolla and Jörgen Schäfer, Media Upheavals
(Bielefeld: Transcript, 2010), 162.
222 NOTES
6 See, for example, Ivan Illich’s discussion of the gaze and the icon, summing up
the theories of John of Damascus (675–749), “an icon is a threshold. It is a
threshold at which the artist prayerfully leaves some inkling of the glory that he
has seen behind that threshold.” The Rivers North of the Future: The Testament
of Ivan Illich as Told to David Cayley (Toronto: Anansi, 2005), 114. I adapted
this language for John Cayley, Lens, 2004.
7 See “At the End of Literature.”
8 John Cayley, “Of Capta, Vectoralists, Reading and the Googlization of
Universities,” in Digital Humanities and Digital Media: Conversations on
Politics, Culture, Aesthetics, and Literacy, ed. Roberto Simanowski (London:
Open Humanities Press, 2016).
Chapter 1
1 These opening remarks, lightly edited, were composed for the republication of
the 1996 essay in 2007.
2 I retain “literary” here in parentheses in deference to a persistent investment in
“superior or lasting artistic merit” (Oxford English Dictionary), whereas serious
contemporary critics of language practice in networked and programmable
media may question the relevance of any “literary” categorizations. See, in
particular, Sandy Baldwin, The Internet Unconscious: On the Subject of
Electronic Literature, International Texts in Critical Media Aesthetics (New
York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2015). In my more recent thinking, I bring the
category into question for reasons of misdirected media specificity—because the
affordances of digitalization undermine the predominance and privilege of the
“letter” as what it is that we say we read. See, in this volume, “At the End of
Literature.”
3 “Serious hypertext” is a rubric of Boston’s Eastgate Systems, one of the major,
self-consciously literary publishers in the field, and developers of their own
hypertext authoring software, “StorySpace.” The Voyager Company has also
made significant efforts to produce new work in new media as well as transpose
appropriate content.
4 George P. Landow, Hypertext: The Convergence of Contemporary Critical
Theory and Technology (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University
Press, 1992). Landow published two further editions of this relatively popular
and influential work for which he evoked the “versioning” paradigm of software
and the regime of computation rather than that of the literary edition itself.
Hypertext 2.0 came out in 1997 and 3.0 in 2006. Jay David Bolter, Writing
Space: The Computer, Hypertext, and the History of Writing (Hillsdale, NJ:
Erlbaum, 1991); George P. Landow, ed. Hyper/Text/Theory (Baltimore: Johns
Hopkins University Press, 1994); Michael Joyce, Of Two Minds: Hypertext
Peda-gogy and Poetics (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1995).
And still of particular importance and relevance: Espen Aarseth, Cybertext:
Perspectives on Ergodic Literature (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins
University Press, 1997).
NOTES 223
5 Posting, March 28, 1995, to the early internet discussion list, ht_lit. In 1995
this list had migrated to a server at Carleton University in Ottawa, Ontario,
Canada, journal.biology.carleton.ca, and was moderated by K. M. Mennie.
The list and its archive have been offline for some years but in 2017 I made
contact with K. M. Mennie and initiated a plan to make an intrinsically
searchable plain text archive of the discussions available in the Brown
University Library’s Brown Digital Repository at: https://repository.library.
brown.edu/studio/item/bdr:735315/.
6 If only society and language use would agree with me, I would still now prefer
to use the term “programmaton” for most uses of “computer.”
7 Generalized non-linear poetics is one of the central concerns of the pioneering
hypertext poet, Jim Rosenberg. See, for example, his introductory essay in Jim
Rosenberg, Intergrams (Cambridge, MA: Eastgate Systems, 1993). This was
published as part of The Eastgate Quarterly Review of Hypertext, Vol. 1, No.
1. Rosenberg also posted a draft discussion of these issues to the listerv ht_lit
(see note 5), March 26, 1995. Espen Aarseth has placed hypertext within a
broader theoretical framework. Aarseth, Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic
Literature (See also note 5).
8 The Chinese writing system, in which characters correspond with single
syllables, encourages the composition of associated periods with equal
phonetic and graphic length, the elements of which may also correspond
in terms of semantics and grammar. This is known as “parallelism” and, by
definition and form, promotes non-linear reading. The figure is particularly
marked in literary Chinese, especially classical poetry, where it may be
required for certain verse forms.
9 Potential Literary Outlawry or PoLiOu was, potentially, one name for a
broad range of experimental literary activities which are engaged with
their own representation in cyberspace and with the particular capabilities
offered by this new form of representation. Clearly, the name makes explicit
acknowledgement to both the anticipatory plagiarisms and the anticipated
antagonisms of the OuLiPo (See also note 28).
10 John Cayley, Wine Flying (London: Wellsweep, 1988). wine flying was first
programmed on a BBC microcomputer in 1983–84. In 1988, it was ported to
the Apple Macintosh and HyperCard and HyperTalk, the author’s preferred
development environment for this kind of work at the time.
11 The authoring framework referred to here, implemented in HyperCard and
HyperTalk, was never published, although it was used for individual works
such as wine flying. This points to the question of the cybertextual author’s
engagement in the creation of forms themselves and how this relates to the
completed work. Most of the software forms I have made are intimately
related to the corresponding finished works, but at the time of writing I could
see clearly that—particularly in the case of non-generative work such as
Scoring the Spelt Air—form could easily be detached from any specific content
and rendered as instrument, tool, or compositional device.
12 The writer of the letter was Humphrey McFall, who it is a pleasure to
acknowledge.
13 “Lexia” is a term adopted by George Landow from Roland Barthes to indicate
the unit of text at either end of a hypertext link.
224 NOTES
27 Here, a line of similar and in some respects, parallel work (which did not
directly influence my own at the time) runs from the text-generation program
“Travesty” by Joseph O’Rourke and Hugh Kenner, intersecting with Mac
Low at the point of his Merzgedichte. Hugh Kenner and Joseph O’Rourke,
“A Travesty Generator for Micros,” Byte, November 1984; Jackson Mac Low
and Kurt Schwitters, 42 Merzgedichte in Memoriam Kurt Schwitters: February
1987–September 1989, 1st ed. (Barrytown, NY: Station Hill, 1994). During
the composition of his Merzgedichte in the late 1980s, Charles O. Hartman
sent Mac Low several computer programs including “Diatext” and “Diatex4.”
He also started to make use of Hugh Kenner and Joseph O’Rourke’s “pseudo-
text-generating” program “Travesty” at about this time, to create some of
the poems. However, “All outputs were subject to rule-guided editing” (sleeve
notes for the audio CD, Open Secrets (New York: XI, Experimental Intermedia
Foundation, n.d. [1994])). Most recently, such processes have been used in:
Charles O. Hartman and Hugh Kenner, Sentences, 1st pbk. ed., New American
Poetry Series (Los Angeles: Sun & Moon Press, 1995). “Travesty” is a text
processor which, set to its higher “orders,” will produce results similar to those
of my collocational procedures.
28 Mathews, a member of the OuLiPo, outlines his version of the procedure in:
Harry Mathews, 20 Lines a Day, 1st pbk. ed. (Normal, IL: Dalkey Archive
Press, 1989). The OuLiPo, or Ouvroir de Littérature Potentiel, is clearly a
basic reference point for cybertextual developments given the workshop’s
profound and ludic investigations of the relationship between mathematics
and literature, constrictive form, combinatory literature, etc. See, by way
of introduction: Warren F. Motte, Oulipo: A Primer of Potential Literature
(Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1986); Harry Mathews and Alastair
Brotchie, eds., Oulipo Compendium (London: Atlas Press, 1998). However,
the OuLiPo has, at best, an ambiguous attitude to the aleatory as an aspect
of generational, constrictive or combinatory procedure, despite the fact that
the distinction between choice as chance and the choice of arbitrary formal
constraints may be too nice to rule out the potential of one or the other.
29 John Cayley, Moods & Conjunctions: Indra’s Net III (London: Wellsweep,
1993–94).
30 Golden Lion: Indra’s Net IV (London: Wellsweep, 1994).
31 John Cayley and Gu Cheng, Leaving the City: Indra’s Net V (London:
Wellsweep, 1995).
32 William S. Burroughs and Brion Gysin, The Exterminator (San Francisco:
Auerhahn Press, 1960); Sinclair Beiles et al., Minutes to Go (Paris: Jean
Fanchette, 1960).
33 John Cayley, Book Unbound: Indra’s Net VI (London: Wellsweep, 1995).
Book Unbound has also been anthologized in a number of places, as follows:
Cayley, John. “Book Unbound,” Engaged, 1995, On CD-ROM; Cayley, John.
“Book Unbound,” Postmodern Culture 7, no. 3, Hypertext special issue
(February 1997). http://muse.jhu.edu/article/603711 (accessed August 13,
2017); “Book Unbound,” in Dietsche Warande & Beaufort [Dwb], 4, on
Electronic (Visual) Literarture, ed. Eric Vos and Jan Baetens (1999); “Book
Unbound,” in The New Media Reader, ed. Noah Wardrip-Fruin and Nick
Montfort (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2003).
NOTES 227
34 The Speaking Clock: Indra’s Net VII (London: Wellsweep, 1995). Extracts
from the clock were also published as: Cayley, John. “From: The Speaking
Clock,” Chain 4 (1997): 25–27.
35 To quote from the given text: “Real time is concealed beneath the cyclical
behavior of clock and time piece. No moment is like any other … and yet the
clock applies the same ‘name’ to many a different instance.” The Speaking
Clock affects to give a unique name to every moment.
36 See Jhave’s website, http://glia.ca and David Jhave Johnston, Aesthetic
Animism: Digital Poetry’s Ontological Implications (Cambridge, MA: MIT
Press, 2016).
37 Oisleánd, as a HyperCard stack, can be still be download from http://
programmatology.shadoof.net and can also be viewed in a constrained,
early web version on this site, http://programmatology.shadoof.net/works/oi/
oisleand.html. This piece was commissioned for a touring exhibition, “Words
Revealed,” initially at the Midland Arts Centre, UK, May 11 to June 23,
1996. windsound has been performed and shown as a text movie in various
venues and is also downloadable as a video from the “programmatology”
site. Cayley, Oisleánd: Indra’s Net IX; windsound, 1999; windsound, 2003.
Electronic Literature Organization: State of the Arts: The Proceedings of the
Electronic Literature Organization’s 2002 State of the Arts Symposium &
2001 Electronic Literature Awards, included on the CD-ROM.
38 A severely cut-back, early versions of noth’rs appeared on the CD-ROM which
accompanied an issue of Performance Research edited by Ric Allsopp and
Scott deLahunta. noth’rs, 1999. Performance Research: 4.2, on CD-ROM. It
was also published on the web as noth’rs, 1999a. Riding the Meridian. An
initial performance version was shown at the Digital Arts and Culture (DAC)
conference, Atlanta Georgia, October 28–31, 1999.
39 I owe this characterization in part to Espen Aarseth, who has developed a
(media independent) “generalized model with a few broad categories that can
describe the main differences of textual phenomena.” In his excellent book
already cited, Aarseth, Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature. He
argues convincingly for a distinction between cybertext and hypertext, putting
forward the former as an inclusive term embracing, for example, indeterminate
or reader-constructed texts, and reserving hypertext for (passively) linked
structures of static lexia (textual nodes).
Chapter 2
1 Sections “THESIS,” “ANTITHESIS,” and “SYNTHESIS” of this chapter were
software-generated by applying semi-aleatory collocational procedures to
arguments manually edited out from the earlier sections. The two arguments
might be summarized as: “The COMPUTER is (an integral part of) the
SYSTEM against which WE write” (thesis), and “Software sHifts poetIcs, iF
riTers prEss: <Reveal>” (antithesis). Sections “THESIS” and “ANTITHESIS”
were generated from their respective arguments separately. A collocational
algorithm generated phrases which were selected and collected by the author.
228 NOTES
Selected phrases were also fed back into the given texts, changing them
irreversibly. The altered texts from “THESIS” and “ANTITHESIS” were then
combined and used as the given text for section “SYNTHESIS” (synthesis). Note
that by this stage very little active selection of generated phrases was required
by the author. The final paragraphs of section “SYNTHESIS” are almost entirely
generated by the simple collocational algorithm. I merely split the generated
paragraphs into lines.
A HyperCard stack (Macintosh only, for HyperCard 2.x) with “Reveal
Code” cybertext generator was produced and published as John Cayley,
Pressing the <Reveal Code> Key: Indra’s Net VIII (London: Wellsweep, 1996).
An archive of this stack is still downloadable, without warranty, from http://
programmatology.shadoof/net.
Section “<REVEALED>” is an extract of the actual working code
(in HyperTalk) used to generate sections “THESIS,” “ANTITHESIS” and
“SYNTHESIS.” The variable terms have been randomly and systematically
replaced with substantive words from sections “The COMPUTER is (an integral
part of) the SYSTEM against which WE write,” “INVARIANT inACCURATE
SYSTEMS never sleep SYNCHRONICally,” “The COMPUTER is not (a
part of) THE MEDIA. The COMPUTER allows for the COMPOSITION
of an indeterminate number of potential MEDIA,” “FAMILIARITY breeds
CONTEMPT. INTIMACY inspires MYSTIFICATION” and “Software sHifts
poetIcs, iF riTers prEss: <Reveal>”—any noun or adjective is allowed to replace
a variable name containing a value; any verb is allowed to replace a procedure
or function name. HyperTalk “reserved words” have been left intact. The code is
working code.
2 Perloff, 189.
3 Ibid.
4 Charles Bernstein, “Play It Again, Pac-Man,” Postmodern Culture 2, no. 1
(1991: n.p.). Cited by Perloff (perhaps in an earlier form) as: “Hot Circuits: A
Video Arcade,” American Museum of the Moving Image, June 14–November
26, 1989.
5 Perloff, 188.
6 Perloff mentions this: ibid., 208. However, Rosenberg has since pointed out that
he wrote only the early programs. Andrew Culver then took over this work for
Cage. (Personal communication.)
7 Jim Rosenberg, remarks posted to the internet discussion list ht_lit, June 9,
1995. See “Beyond Codexspace” note 5 above.
Chapter 3
1 Bolter; Gregory L. Ulmer, Applied Grammatology: Post(E)-Pedagogy from
Jacques Derrida to Joseph Beuys (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press,
1985); Heuretics: The Logic of Invention (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University
Press, 1994).
2 Aarseth, Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature.
NOTES 229
3 Theodor Holm Nelson, Computer Lib / Dream Machines, Revised and updated
ed. (Redmond: Tempus Books of Microsoft Press, 1987); Literary Machines
93.1 (Sausalito: Mindful Press, 1993).
4 When this text was first published, the poet, cris cheek [sic], provided a brief
list of poetics “must-reads” for new media artists. I will provide his excellent
references here, in this note. Kathy Acker, Blood and Guts in High School (New
York: Grove Press, 1978); Steve Benson, Blue Book (Great Barrington: The
Figures/Roof, 1988); Brian Catling, The Stumbling Block (London: Book Works,
1990); Cayley, Book Unbound: Indra’s Net VI; Allen Fisher, Defamiliarising
___________ * (London: Veer Books, 2013); Robert Grenier, Sentences, 1st ed.
(Cambridge: Whale Cloth Press, 1978); Mac Low, Representative Works: 1938–
1985; Steve McCaffery, Panopticon, 1st ed. (Toronto: blewointmentpress, 1984);
Jed Rasula and Steve McCaffery, eds., Imagining Language: An Anthology
(Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1998); Tom Raworth, Logbook (Berkeley, CA:
Poltroon Press, 1977); Writing: [Poems] (Berkeley, CA: Figures, 1982); Lisa
Robertson, Debbie: An Epic (Vancouver: New Star Books, 1997); Jerome
Rothenberg and Pierre Joris, eds., Poems for the Millennium: The University of
California Book of Modern and Postmodern Poetry, Vol. 2: From Postwar to
Millennium (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998); Fiona Templeton,
You the City (New York: Roof Books, 1990); Hannah Weiner, Spoke (Los
Angeles: Sun & Moon Press, 1984).
5 “Whether it has essential limits or not, the entire field covered by the
cybernetic program will be the field of writing. If the theory of cybernetics is
by itself to oust all metaphysical concepts-including the concepts of soul, of
life, of value, of choice, of memory-which until recently served to separate
the machine from man, it must conserve the notion of writing, trace, grammè
[written mark], or grapheme, until its own historico-metaphysical character is
also exposed.” Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology, trans. Gayatri Chakravorty
Spivak, Corrected ed. (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press,
1997), 9.
Chapter 4
1 Certain terms in this essay may require explanation. I prefer, despite its
awkwardness and length, “writing in networked and programmable
media” to any of the current words or phrases such as “hypertext,
hyperfiction, hyperpoetry,” or the corresponding “cyber-” terms, although
I do generally subscribe to Espen Aarseth’s “textonomy,” and would prefer
cybertext to hypertext as the more inclusive, “catholic” term. Aarseth,
Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature. I use “programmatology”
and “programmatological” by extension from “grammatology” and
especially “applied grammatology” as elaborated by Gregory Ulmer. Ulmer.
Programmatology may be thought of as the study and practice of writing
(Derridean sense) with an explicit awareness of its relation to “programming”
or prior writing in anticipation of performance, including the performance of
reading. I try to avoid the use of words such as “computer” and prefer, wherever
230 NOTES
and programmable media with, for example, kinetic and algorithmic texts.
A classified selection of texts is at: http://epc.buffalo.edu/authors/glazier/e-
poetry/.
32 Jodi is the very well-known, long-standing net.art project of Joan Heemskerk
and Dirk Paesmans. Jodi, www.jodi.org, 1980. Jodi.
33 The practice of composing ASCII symbols, usually displayed as monospaced
fonts for regularity, in order to generate imagery. In Jodi’s case this was
abstract or verging on the abstract whereas, popularly, ASCII art has been
figurative.
34 See “Pressing the ‘REVEAL CODE’ Key” in this volume. The variable terms in
this code were randomly and systematically replaced with substantive words
from the text on which the procedure operates—any noun or adjective was
allowed to replace a variable name containing a value; any verb replaced a
procedure or function name. HyperTalk “reserved words” were left intact. The
code is working code.
35 But I raise it, in part, thanks to remarks by Nick Montfort which are
published along with: John Cayley, “Literal Art: Neither Lines nor Pixels but
Letters,” in First Person: New Media as Story, Performance, and Game, ed.
Noah Wardrip-Fruin and Pat Harrigan (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2004);
“Literal Art: Neither Lines nor Pixels but Letters,” Electronic Book Review
electropoetics (2004). As I was writing I came across Hugh Kenner’s highly
interesting reading of “Beckett Thinking.” Kenner examines Beckett’s writing
in terms of strict, exhaustive logical procedure in an essay which includes
paraphrases coded in the programming language Pascal. Hugh Kenner, The
Mechanic Muse (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), 85–105.
36 Hayles, “Virtual Bodies and Flickering Signifiers,” 33.
Chapter 5
1 Martin Heidegger, Poetry, Language, Thought, trans. Albert Hofstader and ed.
Harper Colophon (New York: Harper and Row, 1975), 115. In its web-based
form (http://programmatology.shadoof.net/works/hypercyberpoetext/hcp000.
html) and also as printed in Assembling Alternatives: Reading Postmodern
Poetries Transnationally, there is a parallel “X” text based on an edited
sequence from the same Heidegger piece, extracted from pp. 111 to 120.
This text was collocationally transformed, using a procedure I have described
elsewhere:
This transformation can proceed beginning with any word in the given
text, which we then may call ‘the word last chosen.’ Any other word—
occurring at any point in the base text—which follows (collocates with) the
word last chosen may then follow it and so become in turn the word last
chosen. // Clearly, in this type of transformation, at the very least, each pair
of successive words are two-word segments of natural English. However,
the text will wander within itself, branching at any point where a word that
is repeated in the base text is chosen, and this will most often occur when
common, grammatical words are encountered.
234 NOTES
origins in game playing, these textual spaces require just the sort of analysis
which Aarseth has pioneered, an analysis capable of treating them as “potential
literature.” As a practical experiment, hypertext researchers at Brown University
famously established “Hypertext Hotel,” a MOO space with explicitly literary
inclinations (https://elmcip.net/node/360, accessed July 31, 2017).
14 Ibid., 179. Much as it concerns many of the questions raised, it is impossible
to discuss ergodic art further within the scope of this chapter. It is an analytical
concept well worth pursuing.
15 In her contribution to Assembling Alternatives, “In the Place of Writing,”
Caroline Bergvall has made a strong case for “performance” as a model
of practice bringing together innovative poetic engagements and cross-art
experiments which invoke “non-literary” media or sites—contexts “contained
by and specifying the intertextual” [Bergvall’s emphasis]. Performance is
an intertextual (or hypertextual) path out of codexspace into anyspace.
Performance (“to carry through in due form” OED) may also be seen as
the realization or publication of writing and text-making, where the latter
becomes more properly a “programming” (rhyming with the cybertechnical
usage), a “pre-writing” or a “prior indication” of what and how to read.
Bergvall hints at this, “each publication … announces the text prior to our
reading it, deciphers the text as we read it … rewrites to an extent the text.”
However, I am suggesting that the text here is itself the prior thing, the
program, while any publication of the text and each subsequent reading in
anyspace and by whomever, is a performance. Caroline Bergvall, “In the Place
of Writing: The Performance of Writing as Sited Practice,” in Assembling
Alternatives: Reading Postmodern Poetries Transnationally, ed. Romana Huk
(Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2003).
16 Here is a very short list of contemporary examples (with no attempt on my
part at “catastrophic/judgmental interaction,” see 36). Linking is everywhere,
especially on the World Wide Web but also in work distributed by pioneers
of “serious, literary” hypertext such as Eastgate Systems in Cambridge, MA,
publishers of Michael Joyce’s landmark hypertext afternoon: A Story, which
employs the sophisticated local hypertext authoring software “StorySpace.”
Michael Joyce, afternoon: A Story (Cambridge: Eastgate Systems, 1990). The
work of Robert Kendall, for example, A Life Set for Two, exhibits transience
(it is kinetic), conditional linking and user configuration. Robert Kendall,
A Life Set for Two (Cambridge: Eastgate Systems, 1996). Jim Rosenberg’s
Intergrams and Barrier Frames can only be read if the reader intervenes
(it is ergodic in Aarseth’s sense), revealing tone-like clusters of word-
“simultaneities” arranged in spatially represented, diagrammatic, syntactic
relations. Rosenberg, Intergrams; The Barrier Frames: Finality Crystal Shunt
Curl Chant Quickening Giveaway Stare; Diffractions Through: Thirst Weep
Ransack (Frailty) Veer Tide Elegy (Cambridge, MA: Eastgate Systems, 1996).
Charles O. Hartman has produced a body of generative, quasi-aleatory
work, sometimes with other writers, including Jackson Mac Low and Hugh
Kenner, accessible through his books: Hartman and Kenner; Charles O.
Hartman, Virtual Muse: Experiments in Computer Poetry (Hanover: Wesleyan
University Press, 1996). My own disk- and web-published Indra’s Net series,
described (up to Indra’s Net VII) in “Beyond Codexspace” in this volume,
exemplifies all the textual characteristics mentioned. As World Wide Web
236 NOTES
works extend their abilities to processing as well as linking, they too will
exhibit a wider range of cybertextual features, although aleatory linking
or linking which is reader-determined is already a powerful, if anarchic,
technology which can be easily exploited. Chris Funkhouser has documented
and carefully analyzed much of the poetically inclined early work of this kind
in: Christopher T. Funkhouser, Prehistoric Digital Poetry: An Archaeology of
Forms, 1959–1995 (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2007). He has
since gone on to address corresponding work, made after the advent of the
web: New Directions in Digital Poetry, ed. Francisco J. Ricardo, International
Texts in Critical Media Aesthetics (New York: Continuum, 2012).
17 “Late age of print” is a much-discussed phrase originating with: Bolter.
18 The possible effect of the rise of audiovisual channels on the development of
literary cybertext is also discussed in “Beyond Codexspace,” above.
Chapter 6
1 Joan Retallack, “Blue Notes on the Know Ledge,” in The Poethical Wager
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 75–76.
2 Retallack is also noted as a scholar and student of John Cage, one of the most
important artists to have contributed to the field of digitally mediated writing
through his algorithmically generated mesostic texts.
3 Retallack is an example of such a writer, but not one of those who would
resist a practical engagement with or appreciation of “new” media. For
instances of the latter, see some of the discussions associated with: Joel
Kuszai, ed. Poetics@ (New York: Roof Books, 1999). In the course of
these discussions, I wrote, “Some writing … either could not exist in more
‘traditional’ media, or would not be so elegantly presented as it would in
cyber / hypertext … // In particular, I mean texts where ‘chance operations’
and/or algorithmic transformations are applied to given texts and the writer
insists that the ‘real time’ results of these procedures are her inscription on
the surface of a complex medium.” Ibid., 174–175. For resistance to this view,
please refer to the proceeding and following contributions to the thread,
within the book cited, especially those by Ron Silliman. My remarks here are a
revisiting, reformulation, and development of related ideas and arguments.
4 This section is based on discussions in: John Cayley, “Bass Resonance,”
Mute, January 2005; “Bass Resonance,” Electronic Book Review
electropoetics (2005); “Lens: The Practice and Poetics of Writing in
Immersive VR: A Case Study with Maquette,” Leonardo Electronic Almanac
14, no. 5–6 (2006): n.p.
5 Saul Bass was the first film title designer to be given a screen credit by the
Director’s Guild of America (for Otto Preminger’s Carmen Jones, 1954).
6 Paratext generally could also be retheorized as complexity of writing surface.
Graphic design elements and framing conventions create depth and structure
time in and throughout the textual object.
7 One of the interesting aspects of Bass’s work is its non-use of Concrete poetics.
One strand of literal art in new media clearly derives from Concrete traditions.
NOTES 237
Note however, that I do not consider linguistic or textual objects that deploy
the rhetoric of Concrete to produce complexity in the surface of writing as
I am developing the concept here. In a sense, Concrete works because the
properties and methods it brings together cannot share the same surface. This
is the trope of Concrete: words are objects; words are not objects.
8 In his work on West Side Story (1961) Bass quietly and wittily played with
real surfaces as a site for (title) writing, with the credits expressed as graffiti
and intermixed with signage. One of the recognized artists in contemporary
film titles, Kyle Cooper, literally etched or collaged the credits for Se7en (1995)
onto film stock. In Bass’s later worked he reverted to the dominant mode of
screen titling in which letters and words “float over” the visual world of the
film on planes that are, conceptually, in an entirely different space, in contrast
with that of the underlying photo-naturalism. This mode is also relatively
familiar in new media work with language in the form of writing that is,
basically, illustrated by visual and audio material rendered in new media.
There is, as yet, little work that is consciously made for the complex writing
surfaces made accessible by new media.
9 I am aware that, following Retallack and others, I am evoking some
mathematical concepts in a rather vague and quasi-metaphorical sense. I am
not pretending to use any of these terms with an informed understanding
of their mathematical counterparts. But I would not like to preclude the
possibility that this could be done, and that some of the procedures loosely
described here could be given fairly precise representation in the mathematics
of complexity and chaos, for example.
10 This analogy might be pursued since the mesostic procedure is also inherently
recursive. The same mesostic process can be recursively applied to the
generated text, as in Emmett Williams’s “universal poetry.”
11 John Cayley, overboard. 2003. Custom software, ambient poetics. http://
programmatology.shadoof.net/?overboard (accessed August 1, 2017); John
Cayley, Translation. 2004. http://programmatology.shadoof.net/?translation
(accessed August 1, 2017). The principles and algorithms underlying
overboard are set out in: John Cayley, “overboard: An Example of Ambient
Time-Based Poetics in Digital Art,” dichtung-digital 32 (2004). http://www.
dichtung-digital.de/2004/2/Cayley/index.htm (accessed August 13, 2017).
12 I have pleasure in acknowledging and thanking Brown University’s Literary
Arts Program for the opportunity to work and direct research in the
university’s Cave during the spring of 2004 and 2005. In particular, I would
like to thank Professor Robert Coover, who invited me to take part in the
Program in this way. While at Brown I benefited from discussions and other
interactions with, among others, Noah Wardrip-Fruin, Roberto Simanowski,
Talan Memmott and Bill Seaman (at the neighboring Rhode Island School
of Design). Dmitri Lemmerman was my main collaborator on the projects
discussed here. Further discussion of work for the Cave—from which some of
the following is derived—can be found in: “Lens: The Practice and Poetics of
Writing in Immersive VR: A Case Study with Maquette.”
13 The question arose as to why this phenomenon should be so immediately and
effectively perceptible; and this is discussed in more detail, along with other
aspects of the phenomenology of text in space more generally, in: ibid.
238 NOTES
Chapter 7
1 N. Katherine Hayles, “Translating Media: Why We Should Rethink
Textuality,” The Yale Journal of Criticism 16, no. 2 (2003): 277, original
emphasis.
2 Rita Raley, “Interferences: [Net.Writing] and the Practice of Codework,”
Electronic Book Review (2002): n.p.
3 “The Code Is Not the Text” in this volume.
4 Hayles, “Translating Media: Why We Should Rethink Textuality,” passim, esp.
270–271.
5 Ibid., 275.
6 Ibid., 274. Emphasis in the original.
7 Ibid., 276. Emphasis in the original.
8 Ibid., 274.
9 “Virtual Bodies and Flickering Signifiers”; “Virtual Bodies and Flickering
Signifiers.” Discussed extensively in “The Code Is Not the Text” in this volume.
10 See “The Code Is Not the Text.”
11 Raley.
12 Ibid.
13 Glazier. Code is addressed throughout Glazier’s book but especially in the
chapter “Coding Writing, Reading Code,” 96–125.
14 An analysis and something of an apologia for Mez’s work and theory
is provided by: Raley. For more detail, see: “The Code Is Not the Text,”
above. Sandy Baldwin provides a critique of this earlier paper of mine and
also explores a number of ways in which code may enhance the rhetoric
of this kind of work, see: Sandy Baldwin, “Process Window: Code Work,
Code Aesthetics, Code Poetics,” in Ergodic Poetry: A Special Section of
the Cybertext Yearbook 2002, ed. Loss Pequeño Glazier and John Cayley,
Publications of the Research Centre for Contemporary Culture (Jyväskylä:
University of Jyväskylä, 2003).
15 Cf. “The Code Is Not the Text.”
16 The case for “brokenness” as a feature, not a bug, is made in: Baldwin,
“Process Window: Code Work, Code Aesthetics, Code Poetics,” 115.
17 See, again, “The Code Is Not the Text.”
18 Barthes, S/Z. Discussed in: Hayles, How We Became Posthuman: Virtual
Bodies in Cybernetics, Literature, and Informatics. In S/Z Barthes establishes
a distinction between texts that are readerly and writerly texts, those that,
respectively, invite interpretation and (re)construction by their reader/authors.
19 Gérard Genette, Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation, ed. Richard Macksey
and Michael Sprinker, trans. Jane E. Lewin, 1st English ed., Literature, Culture,
Theory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997).
NOTES 239
47 In Writing Machines, ibid., Hayles finds herself, perhaps, at the limits of this
process, discussing works such as Tom Phillips’ A Humument and Mark
Danielewski’s House of Leaves, that are literally print(ed.) without divorcing
their manifestation of inherent textual properties: properties that can be
represented but not embodied in print. These include the represented and
remediated temporal complexities of Leaves; the process and practice of
Phillips continuing to alter and prepare A Humument; in Talan Memmott’s
work the reader’s ergodic process of revealing textual spaces. Talan
Memmott’s Lexia to Perplexia is a work that can be seriously discussed in
“printed out” quotation, as Hayles demonstrates. As we have seen above, it
is more difficult to bracket the simultaneities, for example, of a Rosenberg
intergram. Hayles’ criticism is crucial because it takes the institutions
(especially those of literary criticism) to the edge of an abyss, as Edgar leads
Gloucester to the cliff’s edge in King Lear. Mark Z. Danielewski, House of
Leaves, 2nd ed. (New York: Pantheon Books, 2000); Tom Phillips and W.
H. Mallock, A Humument: A Treated Victorian Novel, 4th ed. (New York:
Thames & Hudson, 2005); Talan Memmott, From Lexia to Perplexia, 2000.
February. Originally by Trace; then BeeHive Hypertext/Hypermedia Literary
Journal; then The Electronic Literature Collection, vol. 1 (2006).
48 For example, I discuss figures involving compilation and strict logical
development at the end of “The Code Is Not the Text.”
49 Rosenberg is also acutely aware of the necessity to bring programming into
the scene of writing through institutions and tools. He addresses this in:
Jim Rosenberg, “Questions About the Second Move,” in Ergodic Poetry: A
Special Section of the Cybertext Yearbook 2002, ed. Loss Pequeño Glazier
and John Cayley, Publications of the Research Centre for Contemporary
Culture (Jyväskylä: University of Jyväskylä, 2003). Specifically, Rosenberg
wants tools that allow him to have working literary objects in progress on
his computer desktop: notebooks, as it were, containing signifiers that retain
their temporality and programmability in their native state. Note that the
computer “desktop” and/or “platform” (and/or the “Web” which not so much
of direct concern to Rosenberg) become varieties of metaphoric, if not actual,
institutions here, authorizing and enabling the existence (or not) of particular
objects with particular properties and methods.
50 Hayles, Writing Machines, 110.
51 Code and interiority are taken up in: Cayley, “Inner Workings: Code and
Representations of Interiority in New Media Poetics.”
Chapter 8
1 For me the unresolved locus classicus of this “problematic interplay” is still the
“odd” or “singular” (singulière) materiality of the signifier with which Lacan
distinguished the letter in his “Seminar on ‘The Purloined Letter’” and Derrida’s
critique of this position’s ideality in his “Le Facteur de la Vérité.” Jacques Lacan,
“Seminar on ‘The Purloined Letter’,” in Écrits: The First Complete Edition in
242 NOTES
English (New York and London: Norton, 2007); Jacques Derrida, “Le facteur
de la vérité,” in The Post Card (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987).
2 I aim to stand by such a statement of these circumstances despite the fact that
they tend to be seen or recast in quite other terms, as a matter of contrastive
ontologies, for example, as has been pointed out to me, in particular,
by Francisco J. Ricardo, writing, in a comment on these sentences, “[A]
rchitecture denotes a field of abstract study of physical structures, whereas
language implies abstract study of abstract structures. Without the physical,
architecture is incomplete; with the physical, language is overdetermined”
(private communication, his emphasis). I have no trouble seeing it this way
but prefer an inclination in relation to these problems that is engaged with the
experiences of aesthetic practitioners and their addressees—how these agents
live with(in) language and with(in) media. I pretend that we may learn less
about how things are but more about how we may practice and live in our
media-constituted diegetic worlds.
I note, in passing and as a matter of more or less subjective opinion,
that critics and artists who adopt a more ontological approach find it more
difficult, paradoxically, to distinguish, for example, the cultural significance
and affect of “word” and “image.” Perhaps they may see a “pictorial turn”
when presented with material in either language or pictorial representation.
Perhaps they may claim, to quote a very recent example, “There is no aesthetic
or ethical distinction between word and image.” Vanessa Place and Robert
Fitterman, Notes on Conceptualisms (Brooklyn: Ugly Duckling Presse, 2009),
17. I aim only to examine how we may live and work differently in differing
worlds.
3 A presentation of this chapter (then still in-progress) was also given to a
workshop of the United Kingdom AHRC-funded “Poetry Beyond Text”
project held at the University of Kent, Canterbury, May 9, 2009. A report
of this workshop will be made available on the web and will be linked from
http://projects.beyondtext.ac.uk/poetrybeyondtext/ (accessed August 2,
2017).
4 It has been pointed out to me that the use of the word “world” in this context
immediately invokes the seminal philosophical and art critical work of, in
particular, Nelson Goodman, which I have briefly reviewed before writing this
note. Nelson Goodman, Ways of Worldmaking (Indianapolis: Hackett Pub. Co.,
1978). My usages and formulations here are, as already stated, chiefly those of
a practitioner. Nonetheless I would be concerned not to contradict Goodman’s
more far-reaching, analytical treatments of what is clearly related thinking.
“World” in 3D graphics is a technical and functional term, a way of briefly
referring to the algorithmically derived or modulated images of a particular
system in its entirety. Such a system is, by definition, constituted by its media,
and its diegesis is guaranteed by the underlying principles of 3D graphics. The
media-constituted worlds of my own formulations are more complex than this,
especially in terms of their relationship with cultural production, but they are
perhaps only minor instances of “worldmaking” as analyzed by Goodman.
Where I would engage with Goodman would be in terms of the manifolds of
media-constituted worlds that I do assume in some sense generate any and all
the worlds of media within which we happen to dwell.
NOTES 243
suspended from (how?), painted on, or floating within the so-called, so-painted
“wall.” This relationship of all but purely notional “wall” to the projection-
surface “walls” of the Cave is suggestive. Both instances of “wall” exist and, at
the same time, do not exist for the purposes of poiesis in their respective media.
32 Because, in the diegesis of the painting, it would be occluded by some measure
of beige “fog.” Note that the term “fog” is a technical term in 3D graphics: “A
rendering technique that can be used to simulate atmospheric effects such as
haze, fog, and smog by fading object colors to a background color based on
distance from the viewer, giving a depth cue.” David Shriener et al., OpenGL
Programming Guide: Fourth Edition: The Official Guide to Learning
OpenGL, Version 1.4 (Boston: Addison-Wesley, 2004), 721.
33 I prefer to approach the issues that concern me directly through Foucault,
but compare: Mitchell, Picture Theory: Essays on Verbal and Visual
Representation, 70; Cooper, 56n15; 57. Both Mitchell and Cooper quote from
the passages in Foucault that I discuss, although using Harkness’s translation
unaltered, where its slight misdirections are less crucial to their arguments.
34 Foucault, This Is Not a Pipe, 28.
35 This is my own translation, modifying and improving Harkness. Cf. Ceci n’est
pas une pipe, 34; This Is Not a Pipe, 28.
36 My own, slightly interpretative but careful translation of:
La petite bande mince, incolore et neutre qui, dans le dessin de Magritte sépare
le texte et la figure, il faut y voir un creux, une région incertaine et brumeuse
qui sépare maintenant la pipe flottant dans son ciel d’image, et le piétinement
terrestre des mot défilant sur leur ligne successive. Encore est-ce trop de dire
qu’il y a un vide ou une lacune: c’est plutôt une absence d’espace, un effacement
de ‘lieu commun’ entre les signes de l’écriture et les lignes de l’image. Ceci n’est
pas une pipe, 34.
37 Although I believe that the reader should be able to follow and visualize the
work in my prose, an actual translation of The Treachery into immersive artificial
3D graphics for the Cave has been produced as a maquette, “This Is (Not)
Writing,” and is available to download, along with previewing software that will
render it (without immersion of course) on standard personal computers, from:
http://programmatology.shadoof.net/?notwriting (accessed August 13, 2017).
38 For some readers, the conception of an object graphically distorted like
this may evoke ostensibly parallel discussions of anamorphic images such
as the well-known and often-discussed anamorphic skull in Holbein’s The
Ambassadors. (This image recently adorned the cover of: Mark B. N. Hansen,
New Philosophy for New Media [Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006].)
There might seem to be a similar problem concerning the point at which the
distorted image ceases to be a representation of what it represents. However,
in the first place the anamorphic transformation of the image is studied,
deliberate, and enforces a break with the normal diegetic world of image-
viewing. An out-of-the-ordinary point of view must be assumed in relation to
the distorted image in order to see it as a normalized or construable optical
representation. In the circumstances described in our thought experiment, the
rotation of the objects is entirely regular, easy to describe, and in keeping with
NOTES 247
the way that objects are viewed in space. Simply walking around the objects
would produce the same effects. Moreover, in the case of linguistic material,
the effacement of the representation is catastrophic rather than continuous.
Neither is it entirely or even primarily a matter of judgment. There is a
necessary relation between an inscription and the surface-that-is-no-surface. In
our thought experiment, the pipe is in fact undergoing anamorphic processes
of transformation—in 3D graphics terms—but these are transformations
that we understand and construe in terms of the human optical experience
of objects in space. It simply happens to be the case that there are few such
experiences of inscription in “real-world” space. (A sign mounted so as to
spin on a mast would be an example and note that, basically, such a sign is
simply ignored except during those moments when it can be read.) In the
artificial world of the Cave, it might be argued, for example, that if you rotate
an inscription in front of a human point of view it “should” always simply
look the same—or least remain readable—to that point of view (it appears
not to rotate). In the system’s frame of reference, the inscription-as-object
would be rotating, but it would obey the constraints of the phenomenology
of inscriptions addressed to humans rather than that of optically rendered
3D objects. For certain of my earlier works in the Cave, I instituted such a
“phenomenology” of letters in space (although without theorizing it in this
way) in that I had all individual letters (my “atoms” of graphic inscription)
rotate continuously to “face” the primary tracked point of view as it moved
through the graphics world. From the phenomenologist’s point of view, this is
a kludge, a workaround. Perhaps what we really require are linguistic objects
that are always equally readable regardless of the position from which they
are viewed and without their having, at least conceptually, to transform in
any way—to rotate, translate, or scale—in order to maintain the properties of
readability that they were given when they were inscribed.
39 In one interpretation that is also suggestive of the different ways in which
language as inscription relates to media, this is simply a particularly stark and
clear instance of a phenomenon originally pointed out to me by the historian
of Chinese art, Robert Harrist. A representation of writing should not be
readable. If it is readable then it is no longer a representation of writing,
it is writing. See: Robert E. Harrist Jr., “Book from the Sky at Princeton:
Reflections on Scale, Sense, and Sound,” in Persistence | Transformation: Text
as Image in the Art of Xu Bing, ed. Jerome Silbergeld and Dora C. Y. Ching
(Princeton, NJ: P. Y. and Kinmay W. Tang Center for East Asian Art, 2006),
35–37.
One can also see how catastrophic shifts back and forth from the
representation of writing to writing itself would be likely to ally themselves
with breaks in media-constituted diegesis if one thinks back to photography
and imagines the photo-naturalistic depiction of a room containing a table
strewn with of sheets writing that is “out of focus” in terms of depth of field.
If the writing were, through some form of artifice, brought into focus, and
assuming it was large enough to be readable, it would break both the diegesis
of photo-naturalism while simultaneously and suddenly addressing us as
writing.
248 NOTES
Chapter 9
1 Throughout this chapter, I refer to the Google “corpus,” implicitly treating the
inscribed text that is addressed by the Google indexing engines as if it were
a body of material similar to or commensurate with other textual corpora
such as might be compiled into a particular author’s corpus or the corpora
put together and studied by corpus linguists such as the Brown Corpus, the
Corpus of Contemporary American English, the British National Corpus, and
the American National Corpus.
2 Whenever I use the word “with” in this context, my intention is to highlight
the underlying, now chiefly archaic, sense of “against” that was once more
active in the Anglo-Saxon preposition, although we do still both work and
fight with others. This negative apotropaic inclination of “with” is preserved
by contemporary English in words like “withhold,” “withdraw,” and
“withstand.”
3 “Flarf,” the coinage attributed to Gary Sullivan, is a name for a practice
of poetic writing. There exists a “Flarf(ist) Collective” of writers, mostly
poets, who have exchanged and published work under its aegis. (See the
Flarf feature in the excellent online Jacket Magazine, Jacket 30, July 2006,
http://jacketmagazine.com/30/index.shtml [accessed August 2, 2017].)
Wikipedia describes its aesthetic as “dedicated to the exploration of ‘the
inappropriate’” (as of: February 16, 2011) and this seems right to me. It’s a
significant poetic movement of the late twentieth, early twenty-first centuries
for which, personally and critically, I have a high regard. However, Flarf
is now also closely associated with methods of composition that make
extensive use of internet searches engines since they are, clearly, well adapted
for gathering large amounts of “inappropriate” linguistic material. The
association is unfortunate since there are many, many other ways to explore
the inappropriate and gather relevant exempla. The identification of Flarf with
Google-mining is, itself, inappropriate Flarf. At this point in my argument,
my aim is simply to contrast the Flarfist use of Google-as-grab-bag versus a
sustained aesthetic engagement with the cultural vectors that Google both
offers and denies. Engagement at the level of computation may be a key to
making and maintaining this distinction.
4 Michel Eyquem de Montaigne, “Of the Institution and Education of
Children,” in Literary and Philosophical Essays: French, German and Italian,
The Harvard Classics (New York: P. F. Collier & Son Company, 1910).
5 European Science Foundation (ESF) workshop: “Neuroesthetics: When Art
and the Brain Collide,” September 24–25, 2009, IULM, Milan, Italy.
6 Chrisley’s presentation at the conference was titled “A cognitive approach
to the esthetic experience,” but his introduction of the “edge of chaos” was
largely anecdotal, deriving from experiments with robotic cognition. Chrisley
was then a Reader in Philosophy at the University of Sussex.
NOTES 249
e+and+white+of+sky%22; bmyhyggelig.blogspot.com/2009/12/moment-still.
html; cgapersblock.com/mechanics/2009/06/30/inside-a-toxic-tour/; dlegacygt.
com/forums/showthread.php?t=130524&goto=newpost; ematpringle.
blogspot.com/; fwww.nrl.navy.mil/content.php?P=03REVIEW195; gwww.
mattcutts.com/blog/gmail-inbox-zero/; hwww.theshadowbox.net/forum/index.
php?topic=10610.30; iwww.mountzion.org/johnbunyan/text/bun-caution.
htm; jntl.matrix.com.br/pfilho/html/lyrics/m/mr_blue.txt; kiceagelanguage.
com/Ducks/ducks_part1.pdf; lcucc.survex.com/expo/smkridge/204/uworld.
html; mwww.redroom.com/blog/ericka-lutz/opening-and-closing; nhttp://
www.fibromyalgia-symptoms.org/forums/Fibromyalgia_Support_Groups/
Stomach_pain_and_period_pain_/; °http://www.archive.org/stream/
soundandthefurya013056mbp/soundandthefurya013056mbp_djvu.txt; pwww.
theinsider.com/news/928384_Thanks_for_the_Laughs_Harvey; qhttp://books.
google.com/books?id=ti_rI-aYuw4C&pg=PA337&lpg=PA337&dq=%22the
re%27s+no+sense+in+that+now%22; rbooks.google.com/books?id=LCf0VP
aT1wwC&pg=PA213&lpg=PA213&dq=%22been+none+for+a+long+time+
now%22; swww.aypsite.org/forum/topic.asp?TOPIC_ID=5166; tsecure.bebo.
com/Profile.jsp?MemberId=1471591674; usolpadeine.net/acetone/lyrics/cindy.
html; vwww.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1076221.html; wbooks.google.com/
books?id=gconvZ-DRLsC&pg=PA121&lpg=PA121&dq=%22thirst+the+t
ongue%22; xwww.flickr.com/photos/32296433@N07/3558411711/; yhttp://
www.popmonk.com/quotes/challenge.htm; zhttp://t2.thai360.com/index.
php?/topic/48834-isan-tawan-daeng-re-visited/; aahttp://mshester.blogspot.
com/2008/03/winter-you-are-finished.html; bben.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Image.
This text also comprises the final part of “The Image,” reproduced in
a corrected translation in: The Complete Short Prose, 1929–1989, ed. S. E.
Gontarski (New York: Grove Press, 1995). Despite the explanation given in
the notes, pp. 283–284, it seems bizarre to me that the more or less complete
version as found in How It Is, pp. 28–31 is not preferred for “The Image.”
Certainly, for the final part of the piece, used here, I much prefer Beckett’s own
renderings, for example, “I stay there no more thirst the tongue goes in the
mouth closes it must be a straight line now it’s over it’s done I’ve had the image”
rather than Edith Fournier’s “I stay like this no more thirst the tongue goes in
the mouth closes it must be a straight line now it’s done I’ve done the image.”
20 In actual fact, I made this text by first alphabetically sorting the gathered
sequences and only then rearranging them as little as possible in order to
provide some kind of relatively coherent diegesis.
21 This preliminary piece from The Readers Project may be accessed from http://
thereadersproject.org.
22 There is a great deal that could be written about The Readers Project: about
how it operates and engages literary aesthetics from a critical or theoretical
perspective, most of which would not be entirely relevant to the present
discussion. However, it may be worth noting and commenting briefly on
this sense of “proximate.” A proximate or neighboring word may be one
that is contiguous with a reference word. In linguistics, such a word, for
example, collocates with the reference word if it follows it in the line of the
syntagm, in the metonymic dimension as Roman Jakobson called it. Another
notion of proximity—in the complementary metaphoric dimension, that of
254 NOTES
Chapter 10
1 Confucius (= Kong Fuzi), Confucius: The Great Digest, the Unwobbling Pivot,
the Analects, trans. Ezra Pound (New York: New Directions, 1969), 20. The
NOTES 255
quoted text is Pound’s ideogrammic gloss for the character cheng (Wade-Giles:
ch’eng) often translated as “sincerity.” See also: The Cantos, LXXVI, 468/474.
2 N. Katherine Hayles, Electronic Literature: New Horizons for the Literary,
Ward-Phillips Lectures in English Language and Literature (Notre Dame:
University of Notre Dame, 2008).
3 Alan Liu, The Laws of Cool: Knowledge Work and the Culture of Information
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004).
4 A representative quote: “Electronic literature extends the traditional functions
of print literature in creating recursive feedback loops between explicit
articulation, conscious thought, and embodied sensorimotor knowledge ….
While print literature also operates in this way, electronic literature performs
the additional function of entwining human ways of knowing with machine
cognitions.” N. Katherine Hayles, “Electronic Literature: What Is It?” in
Electronic Literature: New Horizons for the Literary (Notre Dame: University
of Notre Dame, 2008), 135. For “dynamic heterarchies” see: N. Katherine
Hayles “Distributed Cognition in/at Work: Strickland, Lawson Jaramillo, and
Ryan’s slippingglimpse,” Frame 21, no. 1 (2008): 15–29.
5 Liu, 179.
6 Ibid., 3.
7 Ibid., 400, note 8.
8 I am happy to see that this phrase has now been taken up quite widely in the
literature, not least in Hayles’s new book (Hayles, “Electronic Literature: What
Is It?”) and, for example, in: Peter Gendolla and Jörgen Schäfer, eds., The
Aesthetics of Net Literature: Writing, Reading and Playing in Programmable
Media, Media Upheavals (Bielefeld: Transcript, 2007). The phrase can also be
shortened to “writing in programmable media” since programming enables
network. The mark of an explicit relationship with practices of coding will
continue to enrich and to specify our literary practices in these media, but
it is not yet clear to me that programmability and processing give rise to all
their distinguishing characteristics, or, for that matter, operate significantly or
affectively in every example of those practices to which we turn our attention.
Programming enables the network but cultural production on the net does
not always practice coding and neither does every instance of writing in
digital media. As a term, “writing digital media” attempts an abbreviated
reference to this situation by encapsulating the conjunction of networked and
programmable media, without specifying the precise grammar that underlies
this conjunction. I am also anxious to note, in passing, that I consider coding
to be a distinct cultural practice, distinct, that is from writing, for example.
9 In email communication, Aden Evens has pointed out that my use of “form”
as in “persistent form” differs from a stricter usage that would more closely
ally the term with abstract form or, for example, the “concepts” underlying
conceptual art, whereas my persistent form is—I acknowledge this and
the point is brought into my argument explicitly below—implicated with
particular (literary) material cultural manifestations, particular media that are
able to bear particular forms without, however, determining “content” or its
significance and affect. I agree that these distinctions require some elaboration
beyond the scope of this chapter. Evens writes, “form is what the concept
determines, whereas materiality manifests this form but also exceeds it. In
256 NOTES
‘traditional’ artworks, this excess is precisely what makes the work great.
That is, the formal is what can be fully captured by the digital, it is what gets
preserved as ‘information’ ” (email communication, August 4, 2008). My
persistent form is not precisely this excess, but it would enable such excess
to survive the work and its concept. I believe that the final paragraphs of
Terry Harpold’s interesting extended gloss on “hypertext” refer to these deep
problems of form in the practices of writing (in) digital media—of form in
inherited vs. programmable media, I might say. Terry Harpold, “Hypertext,”
in Glossalalia, ed. Julian Wolfreys and Harun Karim Thomas (New York:
Routledge, 2003).
10 Liu, 389.
11 Jacques Derrida, “The Word Processor,” in Paper Machine (Stanford, CA:
Stanford University Press, 2005), 25.
12 Ibid.
13 Jacques Derrida, “The Book to Come,” in Paper Machine (Stanford, CA:
Stanford University Press, 2005), 15.
14 Nelson’s conception of the “permascroll” was introduced after the last
revision of: Nelson, Literary Machines 93.1. As such it does not seem to
be often discussed. A definition, with related terms, can be found here:
Lukka. The permascroll is the sequential record of all significant textual (or
literary) events. A text would simply be a set of references to “spans” of the
permascroll (which would clearly not be sequential). As here, for Derrida, this
kind of totalizing structure designed to record the minutest discrete details
of everything that can be recorded (begging the most significant of questions,
namely: “What is the minutest discrete detail of everything?”) is a potential
apotheosis of literature, but one that also destroys literature by foreclosing
precisely the kinds of development in culture and cultural production that
we are addressing. It allows that literature might end, but in an ultimate
sense on which “the book,” by contrast, does not insist. I have discussed the
permascroll earlier and above, see: “Time Code Language” in this volume.
15 Jacques Derrida, “Paper or Me, You Know …,” in Paper Machine (Stanford,
CA: Stanford University Press, 2005), 65.
16 Ibid.
17 Liu, 179.
18 Ibid., 323.
19 Instantaneous, simultaneous, and on-demand information is the engine of
the postindustrial “now” submitting history to creative destruction, and it is
the destruction of this eternal “now” or self-evident presence of information,
therefore, that will have the most critical and aesthetic potential. Strong
art will be about the “destruction of destruction” or, put another way, the
recognition of the destructiveness in creation. Ibid., 8–9. See also: ibid.,
chapter 11, passim.
20 I am sometimes using the phrase “expressive programming” here, and this is
because of my focus on works that are explicitly coded as an aspect of their
composition and production, but I am thinking of and alluding to the more
general term “expressive processing” which is the subject of an important
monograph. Wardrip-Fruin.
NOTES 257
21 We might consider, in passing, how this “ease” and “facility” (and “cool”)
in relation to literary projects that previously demand special “effort” on
the part of both writer and reader may one day alter our reading of the
pioneering criticism of writing in digital media. Espen Aarseth subtitled his
much-cited Cybertext, “perspectives on ergodic literature,” and suggested
that the special effort required of readers who address writing in these media
was a better indication of its specificities than, for example, non-linearity.
But what happens when such effort becomes less than that required to turn
a page or use an index? Cf. Aarseth, Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic
Literature.
22 A. Braxton Soderman, Mémoire involontaire No. 1, 2008. Electronic
Literature Collection, vol. 2 (2011), http://collection.eliterature.org/2/works/
soderman_memory.html (accessed August 13, 2017).
23 Brian Kim Stefans, “Stops and Rebels: A Critique of Hypertext,” in
Fashionable Noise: On Digital Poetics (Berkeley, CA: Atelos, 2003); Cayley,
“overboard: An Example of Ambient Time-Based Poetics in Digital Art.”
24 Justin Katko and Clement Valla, Yelling at a Wall: Textron Eat Shreds, 2008.
Plantarchy.
25 The trope of consumption—where new media artworks are seen to consume
their own literary (corporal) substance—has been put forward by Christopher
Funkhouser in a paper that goes so far as to cast it in terms of cannibalism.
Christopher T. Funkhouser, “Le(s) Mange Texte(s): Creative Cannibalism
and Digital Poetry,” in E-Poetry 2007 (Paris: Université Paris8, 2007).
Roberto Simanowski develops this critical approach as one aspect of his
analysis of digital aesthetics, especially the fate of literature in digital art
practice where he, to simplify, sees this consumption as reducing—at least
in terms of the literary—the significance and affect of works that are (self-)
identified as digital literature. Roberto Simanowski, “Digital Anthropophagy:
Refashioning Words as Image, Sound and Action,” Leonardo 43, no. 2
(2010): 159–163.
26 Caleb Larsen, Whose Life Is It Anyway? 2008.
27 http://twitter.com/jennyholzer. (It’s extraordinary, reviewing and reissuing
this 2008 essay in 2017, that I felt compelled to describe “what Twitter is”
when it is now an institution by means of which a US president may execute
policy. It is also extraordinary that Larsen produced, essentially, one of the first
chatbots, long before they achieved any kind of currency.)
28 Derrida, “Paper or Me, You Know …,” 46. Emphasis in the original.
29 I know how to make it work (more or less) but I don’t know how it works. So
I don’t know, I know less than ever, “who it is” who goes there. Not knowing,
in this case, is a distinctive trait, one that does not apply with pens or with
typewriters either. With pens and typewriters, you think you know how it
works, how “it responds.” Whereas, with computers, even if people know how
to use them up to a point, they rarely know, intuitively and without thinking—
at any rate, I don’t know—how the internal demon of the apparatus works.
What rules it obeys. This secret with no mystery frequently marks our
dependence in relation to many instruments of modern technology. Derrida,
“The Word Processor,” 23.
258 NOTES
Chapter 11
1 This statement is not equivalent to David Golumbia’s reading of
computationalism in so far as he suggests that individualism and Western
neoliberalism have been underwritten by computationalist assertions that
the mind and human relations generally may be exhaustively modeled by
computational mechanisms or may be computational in themselves. However,
I accord with Golumbia in suggesting that the kind of relationships that
the network promotes, structurally, do tend to reinforce individualist and
liberal sensibilities. David Golumbia, The Cultural Logic of Computation
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009).
2 See the discussion of data vs. capta below, as well as note 19.
3 “Big Software” is, as far as I am aware, my own coinage. “Big data” retains
the gloss of digital utopianism since it appears, as do search engines’ indexes,
to promise universal accessibility and use, while in fact, as the tenor of this
chapter indicates, “big data” is only properly accessible on terms from the
servers of Big Software where it has been accumulated and processed.
4 McKenzie Wark, A Hacker Manifesto (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 2004).
5 Apart from Wark and Golumbia, who do not yet explicitly address, in
particular, the implication of Facebook’s vectoralist predominance, particularly
welcome to and formative of this kind of critical discussion is: Geert
Lovink, Networks without a Cause: A Critique of Social Media (Cambridge:
Polity, 2011). See also: Roberto Simanowski, ed. Digital Humanities and
Digital Media: Conversations on Politics, Culture, Aesthetics, and Literacy,
Fibreculture Books (London: Open Humanities Press, 2016).
6 As I say, I select these organizations as exemplary. The vectoralist practices
critiqued here are widely prevalent in companies both new and long-standing:
Microsoft, Amazon, Apple, and so on, and all the fast-emerging social
networking enclosures.
7 Google’s own rendition of its corporate history is now (accessed January,
2013) available online at http://www.google.com/about/company/. AdWords,
still the backbone of Google revenue, was introduced in 2000.
8 Significantly, from the point of view of institutional distinction, Wikipedia is
operated by a non-profit charitable foundation, the Wikimedia Foundation.
9 Of course, there are problems such as the robotic generation of editorial events
(spam), and the problematic treatment of subjects and entities who may also
present themselves as peers, although they have—as for example a user who is
also the subject of an article—non-negotiable proper interests in the material
to be read. Golumbia briefly cites Wikipedia as contrastively exemplary
of a networked service promoting genuine, as opposed to ostensible,
democratization. Golumbia, 26.
10 http://www.facebook.com/legal/terms (accessed August 3, 2017).
11 “On April Fools’ Day in 2004, we launched Gmail.” http://www.google.com/
about/company/ (accessed January, 2013). I am suggesting that this wasn’t
about email and it wasn’t even primarily about the generation of screen real
estate for ads (see below); it was about accounts, and the ability to associate
NOTES 259
data gathered from search and other services with the representation of human
entities within an enclosure for big data. If this is correct, 2004 becomes the
year of the advent of “big data” from my perspective, and the date for the
advent of self-conscious vectoralist enclosures.
12 The coordination of human and posthuman desire may make it appear that
something is added to human desire in this context, but it is salutary to
consider the possibility that posthuman desire already is or may become a
constrained and narrowed formation constituted by what is representable in
computational systems or, perhaps more specifically, by particular regimes of
computation. Golumbia is pessimistic in this regard.
13 It is clear that the net artist Constant Dullaart is sensitive to certain
implications of such agreements, and if you are looking for a somewhat more
entertaining and edifying way to familiarize yourself with Google’s TOS, I
recommend a visit to http://constantdullaart.com/TOS/ (accessed August 3,
2017). I am grateful to Clement Valla for introducing me to this work by
Dullaart.
14 An ocean of legalese inserts itself into the interstices of getting and
spending—warranties and disclaimers in the packaging of appliances, and so
on. However, it seems to be only since the advent of Big Software that we,
remarkably frequently, make active gestures of agreement to terms: a click, a
press of the (default) return key. We make these gestures more frequently and
more actively but, it seems to me, no less unthinkingly.
15 http://www.google.com/intl/en/policies/terms/ (accessed August 3, 2017).
16 The lines and subsequent quotations in the same style are from a piece that
accompanied the online publication of this essay: John Cayley, “Pentameters
toward the Dissolution of Certain Vectoralist Relations,” Amodern 2
(2013): n.p.
17 The university is under a great deal of pressure in this regard. Many
universities have opted to use Gmail for the purposes of correspondence,
for example, and the relationship of this correspondence to the university
is institutionally implicated. Another, very different, institution comes to be
involved and the question of how these distinct institutions interrelate will
not go away. Now also, social media (Facebook) enters the scene as a further
channel of correspondence and communication for members of the university.
Next, social media models are applied to pedagogical tools and affordances.
But perhaps most tellingly and corrosively, the advent of Online Learning,
MOOCs, and commercial organizations, like Coursera and Udacity already
challenge the university to adopt their services in a manner that may prove to
be inimical to fundamental aspects of its institutional mission, particularly as
a site of independent research, as both problematic and necessary complement
to teaching and pedagogical dissemination.
18 Wark; “The Vectoralist Class,” Supercommunity 84 (2015): n.p.
19 “Data” has been prevalent for decades as indicative of the raw material of
research. It seems particularly important now to consider what is and is not
data. Strictly, data means “that which is given” as evidence of the world.
However, the tools we use to take what the world gives may overdetermine
the material we are able to gather. Arguably, the computational regime is
overdetermined in a number of respects. It can only take as putative data
260 NOTES
Chapter 12
1 See “The Gravity of the Leaf” in this volume and John Cayley, “The Gravity
of the Leaf: Phenomenologies of Literary Inscription in Media-Constituted
Diegetic Worlds,” in Beyond the Screen: Transformations of Literary
Structures, Interfaces and Genres, ed. Peter Gendolla and Jörgen Schäfer,
Media Upheavals (Bielefeld: Transcript, 2010).
2 This association with particular physical media is conventional and a function
of human capabilities. It is also conservative: language finds it difficult to be
deployed in other physical media, although in principle this would be possible.
Vilém Flusser seemed to propose that linguistic symbolic practice will migrate
to the “technical image.” Perhaps it’s on its way, but very slowly. Natural
sign languages are, to my mind, the only instances of commensurate human
language systems that are deployed in another physical medium—that of
spatialized gesture.
3 One of the best expositions of this position that I know is implicit throughout
the work of Derrida and set out fairly clearly in Derrida, “The Book to Come.”
4 I hope that this usage of “readability” will become clearer as the chapter
elaborates. In art practical research, my collaborator Daniel C. Howe and I
are exploring aspects of readability and the culture of human reading through
Cayley and Howe.
5 In particular, this chapter follows on from thinking in “The Code Is Not the
Text,” included in this volume and at John Cayley, “The Code Is Not the Text
(Unless It Is the Text),” Electronic Book Review (2002): n.p.
6 Saying that it is “easier” to read glosses over a wide range of ways in which
the “ease” of this facility may be generated: through choice of reserved words
and operators, through the deployment of more familiar syntax, etc. etc.
7 I use “privileged” to indicate the kind of special and necessary relationship
between low-level (machine) codes and particular hardware configurations.
8 These works are referred to and discussed using a range of terms by critics
of Baldessari’s work. “Composite photoworks” is from: Bruggen, 131 ff.,
184.
9 This consideration of virtual linguistic artifacts in a visual field has many
fascinating special cases that it is impossible to go into here in any detail.
Consider the status of the title on the cover of the (second) book in 2a. It
is readable and also, thus, “language-as-such,” but it is also comfortably,
diegetically part of the image-of-a-book-cover and so does not exemplify the
diegetic break that language, I claim, always registers. There are the cases of
film titling; (usually failed) attempts to introduce readable language into film
and video; and subtitles that are “invisible” despite the fact they usually also
embody a ghastly, tasteless disregard (without evoking the obvious necessary
NOTES 263
diegetic break between one language and another) for the composition of the
cinematic frame. The historian of East Asian art Robert Harrist has written
about the representation of writing and writing itself, inspiring some of my
thinking in: Harrist Jr.
10 Instances from “Monoclonal Microphone” were first published, thanks to its
editor, Benny Lichtner, with a somewhat extended description of the process
in: John Cayley, “From: Writing to Be Found,” adj noun, Spring 2011. This
work was built using Processing (http:processing.org), and the RiTa natural
language processing library by Daniel C. Howe (http://www.rednoise.org/
rita/).
11 The discussion, below, of our last example from distinctly computational
digital language art refers to an exemplary and executable instance of such
criticism.
12 Nick Montfort and Stephanie Strickland, Sea and Spar Between, 2010. In
Dear Navigator, SAIC, Chicago.
13 Nick Montfort and Stephanie Strickland “Cut to Fit the Tool-Spun Course:
Discussing Creative Code in Comments,” Digital Humanities Quarterly 7, no.
1 (2013).
14 Stephanie Strickland, V—WaveSon.nets. V—losing l’una, Penguin Poets (New
York: Penguin, 2002); Stephanie Strickland, Cynthia Lawson Jaramillo, and
Paul Ryan. Slippingglimpse. 2007. http://slippingglimpse.org (accessed August
13, 2017).
15 The series of works I am thinking is: Nick Montfort, ppg256 series: Perl
Poetry Generators in 256 characters. 2008-ongoing. http://nickm.com/poems/
ppg256.html (accessed August 13, 2017).
16 Shelley Jackson, Skin: A Story Published on the Skin of 2095 Volunteers. 2003.
http://ineradicablestain.com/skindex.html (accessed August 3, 2017).
Chapter 13
1 The conference took place from March 4 to 5, 2016, and was organized by
Sydney Skybetter. Website, http://www.choreotech.com (accessed March 20,
2016).
2 This reference to and usage of pharmakon is inspired by the critical thought
of Bernard Stiegler. See, among many other references: Bernard Stiegler,
For a New Critique of Political Economy (Cambridge: Polity, 2010); What
Makes Life Worth Living: On Pharmacology, trans. Daniel Ross, English ed.
(Cambridge, UK and Malden, MA: Polity Press, 2013).
3 While digitization might be used for both senses, digitalization may also be
deployed to indicate, generally, institutional and social reconfiguration and
accommodation to digital culture and networked computation, whereas
digitization may have a constrained sense: the encoded representation of
information about the world in digital form.
4 John Cayley, “Terms of Reference & Vectoralist Transgressions: Situating
Certain Literary Transactions over Networked Services,” Amodern 2 (2013):
n.p.; “Pentameters toward the Dissolution of Certain Vectoralist Relations.”
264 NOTES
23 Personal email communication, March 21, 2016. Primary Source was first
publicly exhibited at the “Proxy” curatorial space, Providence, RI, March–
April, 2015 as part of a group show entitled “Maximum Sideline: Postscript.”
Capone self-published a print-on-demand artist’s book/chapbook version to
coincide with the installation. On-demand print copies of this book may be
ordered from the following URL: http://www.lulu.com/shop/francesca-capone/
primary-source/paperback/product-22217179.html (accessed March 26,
2016). Both video and PDF versions of the work were subsequently published
online by Gaus PDF (http:/gaus-pdf.com), PDF: http://www.gauss-pdf.com/
post/121599676480/gpdf177gpdfe016-1-francesca-capone-primary, and
video: http://www.gauss-pdf.com/post/121599892473/gpdf177gpdfe016-2-
francesca-capone-primary. Francesca Capone, Primary Source (Providence,
RI: Self-published artist’s book; also available online from Gauss PDF, 2015).
Remarks following on in the main text are adapted from an afterword that the
author wrote for Capone’s chapbook.
Chapter 14
1 Derrida, Of Grammatology.
2 James R. Hurford, The Origins of Grammar, Language in the Light of
Evolution (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2012); The Origins
of Language: A Slim Guide (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014).
3 Ibid.
4 Stanislas Dehaene, Reading in the Brain: The Science and Evolution of a Human
Invention (New York: Viking, 2009).
5 Derrida, Of Grammatology; Stiegler, For a New Critique of Political Economy;
What Makes Life Worth Living: On Pharmacology; “Digital Knowledge,
Obsessive Computing, Short-Termism and Need for a Negentropic Web,” in
Digital Humanities and Digital Media: Conversations on Politics, Culture,
Aesthetics, and Literacy, ed. Roberto Simanowski (London: Open Humanities
Press, 2016).
6 Roberto Pieraccini, The Voice in the Machine: Building Computers That
Understand Speech (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2012).
7 N. Katherine Hayles, ‘Prologue.’ In How We Became Posthuman: Virtual Bodies
in Cybernetics, Literature, and Informatics (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1999), xi–xiv.
8 V. N. Vološinov, Marxism and the Philosophy of Language, trans. Ladislav
Matejka and I. R. Titunik (Cambridge and London: Seminar Press, 1973);
Jean-Jacques Lecercle and Denise Riley, The Force of Language, Language,
Discourse, Society (Houndmills and New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004).
9 Matthew Rubery, The Untold Story of the Talking Book (Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 2016).
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INDEX
Aarseth, Espen 7, 74–5, 108 aurality ix–x, 211, 216–20, 265 n.15
analysis of textuality 76 domain of 217
Acker, Kathy 61, 141, 251 n.16 aurature 4, 12, 219–20
acrostics 18, 20–1, 36 authorial integrity 70, 76, 196
Actual Possession of the World authorial originality 69, 137–8, 250
(Cayley) 27–8 n.13
advertising 139, 141, 179, 181–2, 188, authoring packages 35
196 authoritarian/authoritative 70, 79
reconfiguration of 167 automatic speech recognition 73, 200,
aesthetic responsibilities 4, 7, 10–12 216, 218–19
affordances. See digital affordances socialization of 220
aleatory procedure 18, 21, 26–7, 71. automatic voice recognition. See
See also chance operations automatic speech recognition
Alexa Voice Services (AVS) 218 avant-garde 57, 155, 231 n.8
algorithm(s) 4–5, 12, 25, 36, 50, 110, literary 72, 144
167, 175, 178–9, 182, 191, 209, writing 61
219 AVS. See Alexa Voice Services (AVS)
of text generators 49
algorithmic processes 4, 12, 58, 88, Baldessari, John 125, 126, 189–90
130, 156, 176, 179–81, 187, Barthes, Roland 101, 123, 124, 223
191, 203–5, 207, 217 n.13, 244 n.15
alphabet 47 Bass, Saul 81–3, 85, 93
alphabetic systems of inscription 178 Baudrillard, Jean 79
Amazon 11 Beckett, Samuel 142–3, 252 n.19
Amazon Echo 218 Bernstein, Charles 33–4, 57
anticipatory plagiarism/plagiarists 58, big data 5, 11, 166–7, 176–8, 180,
223 n.9 197, 200–1
aporia 150, 155 bigram(s) 254 n.22. See also ngram(s)
aesthetic 150 Big Software 11, 167, 170, 171, 173,
artificial intelligence(s) 5, 140, 216, 219 175
artistic formalism 67 architecture 200, 204
artistic media 7, 17, 36, 136, 185 circumstances of 176
Art & Language 122, 157 enclosing vectors 167–8
ASCII art 62–3 institutional relations with 177
“Asymmetries” (Mac Low) 20 processes 181
atomism 96 services 174
audiobook(s) 220 vectoralist enclosures of 176
augmented reality 209 bilingualism 62
INDEX 283
book 54, 69, 71, 155, 162, 170, 220 code 8, 35, 40–1, 53, 56–60, 68, 95–7,
to come, the 152–3 114, 187–8, 230 n.5
definition of 110 connotation and 124
digitized 174 continuing operation of 96
end of the 155 creative processes of 71, 77, 194
format 47 hierarchies of 96, 101
institutions of 156 hypertext and 106
literature 149, 156 language and 62, 96, 187–8
practices of writing constrained by language of 61–2, 100
80 linguistic material from 62
as program(s) 80 power of 56, 59–60, 100, 113, 231
Book Unbound (Cayley) 27 n.10
Bootz, Philippe 103, 110, 232 n.22, proper ontology of 187
239 n.28 provisional categories of 99
theory of 103 punctuation and 102–3
breaking media 119, 121–2 role of 36
Burroughs, William S. 27, 54, 57, 61 source code 56
“byte-sized” alphabet 47 structures of 54, 65
time and 112–14
Cage, John 36, 57, 58, 86 usages of 61–2, 100
calligram(s) 127, 244 n.14 ways to write 98–102
Capone, Francesca 208, 210 the work itself as 96, 194–5
capta 173–4, 176, 178–81, 222 n.8, writers’ relationship to 35, 40–1, 68
259–60 n.19, 261 n.23 code-as-text 53–4, 60, 62, 96, 265–6
catastrophic n.17
as characterizing grammalepsy 3, code-infected writing/interface text
123, 189–91, 193, 214–15 99–100, 102
Cave (immersive VR device) 121–2, codework 8, 58–64, 95–6, 98–100, 102
126, 130, 131 reassessment of 58
description of 117 codex 31, 47, 69, 73
graphics 119 codexspace 16, 67–70
immersive visual space of 119 pure literacy of 75–6
language in 132 collocational procedure 24–7, 227–8
objects in 130 n.1, 233–4 n.1
software 89–90 collocations 21–2, 22–5, 27. See also
3D space of 92 Indra’s Net II
user 116–17 Collocations (Cayley) 24–5
version of Lens 92 commands (in computation) 34–5, 37,
walls as complex surfaces 88–93 56, 231 n.12
working in 118 complex surface(s) 9, 80–7, 93, 96,
chance operations 21, 27, 31. See also 185
aleatory procedure for linguistic inscription 185
Chinese Buddhism 20, 26 symbolic on 93
Chrisley, Ron 135 textuality of 93
Christie, John 27 composite photoworks 124–5, 189
Cloninger, Curt 202 compositional media 7, 11, 48, 53, 59,
“cloud” (as in networked computation) 89, 213
170, 218–19 potential use of 59
284 INDEX
textual materiality 109. See also text, virtual linguistic artifacts 188, 190,
materiality of 193–5
textual programming 72 virtual linguistic forms 214
textual transition effects 50 virtual reality (VR) 9–10, 53, 89
three-dimensional space, writing in visibility, as an aspect of language’s
22–3, 115–31 specific materiality 113
time (with respect to code and “visible language” 15–16
language) 8, 10, 95–114. visualizations 202
See also language, temporal/ visual poetry 22–4, 210. See also
temporalization Indra’s Net
code generates literal time 112–14 voice 12, 75–6, 116
hypertextual dissolutions 103–4 and language 185–97
and literal institutions 111–12 services 200
punctuation colon programming VR. See virtual reality (VR)
102–3
“traditional” delivery media 69, 98 Wark, McKenzie 167
traditional literary media 110 Wikipedia 138–9, 168
transactive synthetic language (TSL) 12, Williams, Emmett 20, 27, 58, 86
199, 200, 216, 217, 264–5 n.15 windsound (Cayley) 30
transclusion (Nelson) 47 wine flying (Qian Qi; Cayley
transfiguration, translation as, in trans.) 19
WordLens 209 WordLens (app) 208, 209
transgression 177–9 configuration of events 210
human vs. robotic 179 WordNet 158
multiple 181 word processing 55–6, 178–9
negative connotation of 177 World Wide Web 15, 69–70, 74
translation (Cayley) 86–9, 93 writers/writing 8–9, 15, 17, 27, 37, 48,
The Treachery of Images (Magritte) 72, 122, 165–6, 188
121–3, 126–8, 130 avant-garde 61, 72 (see also avant-
trigrams 254 n.22. See also ngram(s) garde)
“True Search” 169 contemporary practices of 165
TSL. See transactive synthetic language digital media (see “writing digital
(TSL) media”)
Turing Test, foreclosed by transactive dimensionless surface of 80–1
synthetic language 216 distorted representation of 129
Twitter 11–12, 160–3 experimental 48–9
typewriting 55, 178 formal conservatism of 152
typography, digitization of 213 forms of 154–5
innovative 48–9, 61
ultimate poetry (Williams) 20, 225 neo-Romantic world of 166
n.21 operative in 65
Under It All (Cayley) 21–5 practices of 80, 165
“universal” symbolic practice, Western procedures of 143
association of language with 187 processes of 49, 81, 133
for programmable media 88–9
Valla, Clement 159, 160, 202–4 programmatological dimension of
virtual language 5, 188, 195, 206, 216 232 n.31
generation of 187–8 readers 133–45
292 INDEX